Liberated Spirits
Page 12
Roy Olmstead needed more men for his burgeoning enterprise, but they needed to be men with talent. The emerging commercial radio industry and the potential uses of such technology interested Olmstead, and led him to Alfred Hubbard. Only recently escaped from his awkward teenage years, Al had built himself a reputation as a boy wonder of technology, backing up his moniker with a host of claimed inventions, including a form of an X-ray machine. Despite his slovenly dress, pockmarked face, and ill manners, the young man’s confidence impressed Olmstead, who wanted Hubbard to build him a radio station. The two men, along with Olmstead’s attorney, Jerry Finch, established the American Radio Telephone Company with the aim of building a one-thousand-watt broadcasting station in Olmstead’s house, “because that was the only real estate any of us owned.” Hubbard installed a studio in the building where Finch had his office.31 They adopted the call letters KFQX and the station became operational in the spring of 1924, Elsie soon broadcasting, from the home she shared with Roy, bedtime stories for kids, using the pseudonym “Aunt Vivian.”32
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Mabel Willebrandt continued to involve the Justice Department in attempts to resolve the antiquated community property statutes in California. The DOJ in March 1922 had issued, certainly at Willebrandt’s behest, a ruling that spouses residing in those handful of states referred to as “community property states” could file separate tax returns, a backhanded way of establishing a woman’s legal right to her half of the marital estate. California, unfortunately, was not named as a community property state, given the unsettled nature of its definition of community property. The legal wrangling persisted until the end of 1923, when a superior court in Oakland, California, held “that the rights of the wife in her half of the community property are absolute . . .”33 This ruling had enabled Senator Samuel Shortridge, whose sister Clara Foltz had been a leader of the California women’s movement for decades, to threaten “Internal Revenue Commissioner Blair . . . to recognize the California community property law in the matter of federal inheritance and the submission of separate tax returns,” or the senator would call for a thorough investigation and a fifty-million-dollar refund to the taxpayers of his home state.34
On March 27, 1924, Attorney General Harry Daugherty, perhaps repaying the loyalty of Mrs. Willebrandt, issued a statement that the federal government would recognize California as a community property state, ignoring the enormous tax implications of such a position. Secretary of the Treasury Andrew Mellon, on the same date, stated that henceforth, California would be governed by the same federal treasury regulations as applied to other community property states, allowing a wife to file a separate tax form and claim half of the gross income from the marriage.35
A few months later, however, the new attorney general, Harlan Stone, indicated he would reverse Daugherty’s decision on California’s status as a community property state because estimates of rebates due for alleged overpayment of taxes had grown to $130,000,000, a sum large enough to bankrupt the federal government. But when Stone issued his final decision soon thereafter, he actually supported the opinion offered originally by Mabel Willebrandt. Stone told her he had started his study on the matter from the opposite position, but came around to her view, a fact that gave Willebrandt much satisfaction. Stone’s “official” decision left “mine in full force and effect as the major pronouncement on the subject,” Mabel proudly proclaimed to her parents.36 Later courts and legislation would support Mabel’s opinion and Stone’s agreement, allowing for future challenges in states with unequitable community property laws. Having achieved their goal and feeling magnanimous, the women of California and Senator Shortridge dropped their demand for tax restitution, a concession to the greater good rooted in the hope of a brighter future for women.
Relieved that one victory had been achieved, Mabel Willebrandt refocused on taking down rumrunners. Uncertainty about U.S. rights to halt and seize ships on the high seas and a lack of cooperation from Canadian authorities had hamstrung efforts to make a dent in the rum rows scattered along America’s shoreline, but Willebrandt saw a glimmer of hope in late 1923, when the U.S., British, and Canadian governments agreed on a treaty designating an acceptable zone in which the Coast Guard could board British or Canadian vessels and seize illicit cargo.37 In addition, Canada and the United States agreed to share information on vessels cleared by the Canadians, but suspected of smuggling; Canada agreed to deny clearance to any vessel that it determined could not withstand the journey to its stated destination, answering charges that smugglers claimed destinations that realistically could not be reached given the size and fuel supply of their vessels.38 For the first time, Mabel Willebrandt thought the smuggling of liquor into the United States could be stopped, as long as the federal government provided sufficient manpower and equipment to patrol the coasts.
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Much of the Republican leadership supported the continuation of Prohibition, but some in the party, notably James Wads-worth and Nicholas Murray Butler, with both of whom Pauline Sabin had worked, challenged the law, first on its constitutionality and, by 1924, on its ineffectiveness. Butler became increasingly vocal, charging Prohibition had done nothing but “endow the liquor business by setting it free from taxation and from any measure of public control.” Such statements resulted in calls for his resignation as president of Columbia University and demands that Republican leaders denounce him. The New York Women’s Committee for Law Enforcement asked Pauline Sabin to give her views of Butler’s statements and her own on the Eighteenth Amendment. Sabin said she favored “enforcing the law of the land, more than that, I am in favor of and advocate law observance,” but she would not denounce Butler.39 Perhaps it was in deference to Charles Sabin, a Democrat, who had supported the repeal of Prohibition almost from its inception, and served as an officer for the Association Against the Prohibition Amendment (AAPA), a group to which Butler belonged. The AAPA was composed, primarily, of rich men from both parties, who saw Prohibition infringing on individual liberties, establishing an impossible goal of imposing moral purity on an unwilling public. The organization’s emphasis on the loss of revenue from the now-defunct alcohol tax and increases in personal income tax tarred the association with the interests of an “eastern elite,” keeping the organization’s influence low.40 It is surprising no one ever asked Pauline about the opposing views of her husband on Prohibition, but they appeared to have no effect on the couple’s relationship. Demonstrating her open mind and generosity, Mrs. Charles Sabin offered to serve on the General Reception Committee for the 1924 Democratic National Convention, organized in part by Charles.41
The nomination of President Calvin Coolidge for the 1924 campaign was not a foregone conclusion; although he’d unexpectedly become president a year earlier, his knowledge of and possible involvement in the corruption of the Harding administration was a question mark. Pauline Sabin, however, had no doubts, believing Coolidge “a man of integrity and simplicity” the equal of whom had not been seen since Abraham Lincoln.42 In fact Coolidge was proven innocent of any connection to the Harding scandals, and his famous reserve held an undefinable appeal for Republicans eager to shed the boisterous, unfettered abandon of Harding’s “Ohio gang.”
Pauline Sabin expected a large turnout from women in the 1924 elections; it was their first real opportunity to vote on a large scale, and they were eager to opine on a broad range of political issues. “The erroneous idea that women should be interested only in measures that affect women and children and not inform themselves as to the other political issues is defeating the very reason we wanted the vote—so as to take sex out of politics.”43 Harriet Taylor Upton, vice chairwoman of the Women’s National Republican Executive Committee, identified 125 women as full delegates and twice that number as alternates, both significant increases over the number of women in attendance at the 1920 convention.44 Pauline Sabin, a member of the party’s national commi
ttee, was counted among them, along with Mabel Willebrandt, attending not as a delegate but as the highest-ranking woman in President Coolidge’s administration.45 The women’s greatest hope was approval of their resolution for equal representation on the national committee. The Democrats had granted equal status to women in 1920, but the Republicans had neglected to make similar accommodation, failing to foretell the impending passage of the Nineteenth Amendment.
Before the convention got into full swing, Sabin hosted a tea, at the Shaker Heights Country Club in one of Cleveland’s toniest suburbs, for prominent women from around the country to cement their call for full representation on the national committee and equal committee representation.46 The New York delegation unanimously elected Sabin the state’s associate member to the Republican National Committee, with Charles Hilles as the full member, and knew that Sabin’s “associate” label would soon fall away.47 Her “associate” status, a designation harkening to the days before passage of the Nineteenth Amendment, was removed a day later when the Republican National Committee formally approved equal representation, the announcement generating loud applause and cheering from both women and men on the convention floor.48 Almost immediately following upon that vote, Sabin was appointed to the convention’s subcommittee on policies and resolutions, which would frame the policy language for the party platform.49 A final honor and recognition of her ascent in the party came at the end of the convention, when Sabin was appointed to a “special body” to choose an executive committee of fifteen members to serve as the staff to assist the Republican National Committee chairman, William Butler, in managing the Coolidge presidential campaign. By virtue of her role in helping select the executive committee, Sabin would also serve on that committee.50
The party conventions functioned as a good demarcation point to assess the advances of women in politics. Anne O’Hagan Shinn, a columnist for the New York Times, attended both the Democratic and Republican conventions and observed many changes since the conventions of 1920. In 1920, women and their exuberance at inclusion proved a novelty, but in 1924, they were “taken for granted as normal political people,” an evolutionary step welcomed by Shinn. She listed the increased numbers of delegates, committee memberships, candidates, elected officials, and political appointees, recognizing that though some designations existed only as tokenism, even that represented forward motion. “If women had come into politics full-grown, brain-children like Minerva, perhaps their list of offices and emoluments wouldn’t seem very impressive,” Shinn conceded, “but for four-year-olds, kindergartners, toddlers, it doesn’t make such a bad showing. And it is even better as promise than as accomplishment.”51
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In early June 1924, the Prohibition Unit caught a break—a “fluke,” Roy Lyle called it when told by William Whitney.52 Whitney had met a man named Richard Fryant, who had worked for various telephone companies and developed the unique skill of tapping phone lines and listening to the conversations.53 As luck would have it, Fryant knew Harry Behneman, whose odd jobs had afforded the opportunity to familiarize himself with the telephone exchange of the Henry Building, where Roy Olmstead’s office coordinated liquor deliveries. The prospect of listening to Olmstead’s unguarded conversations, of learning the entire conspiracy from top to bottom, including dates, times, and locations of deliveries, must have made William Whitney quiver with anticipation. It would provide the evidence of conspiracy that would put Olmstead and his cohorts away for a long time. Without hesitation or approval from Lyle, Whitney hired Fryant as an agent to tap Olmstead’s phone and “gather evidence.”54 And Fryant asked Behneman to assist.
At nine a.m. on June 25, Fryant and Behneman entered the basement of the Henry Building and Fryant wrapped two wires around the lugs of the main Olmstead phone connection. The pair of wires led to a single earpiece.55 Neither man had thought to bring a chair or a desk or much in the way of pencils and paper. Fryant listened first, and heard an order for liquor being placed. Another followed quickly.56 Perched on boxes, they took turns: one wearing the earpiece, the other scribbling notes on the few sheets they had, filling every inch. Whitney stopped by and listened in that day, excited at what he heard.
Acting on information gathered that first day, two of Whitney’s agents staked out the alley running behind the A-1 Hotel in downtown Seattle. At about three p.m., a car dropped Myer Berg, a top Olmstead man, at the hotel’s rear entrance and drove off. A second car pulled up as Berg reemerged in time to receive two packages of whiskey, which Berg carried inside. Having seen enough, one of Whitney’s men walked over to the two bootleggers in the car and informed them they were under arrest. The men jumped out of the car and ran, the agent shooting after them to no avail. While the two made good their escape, Myer Berg walked back out of the hotel and into the arms of the two Prohibition agents.
Fryant and Behneman learned about the bust before Olmstead did; they were listening in as one of the men who had gotten away called his boss’s office, blurting, “They got the load.” A feeling of power must have come to the wiretappers. Even though the first afternoon’s work had produced mixed results, they were now inside the biggest liquor ring in Seattle. But problems ensued. Transcribing the conversations word for word demanded more earpieces and more writers, but Fryant was reluctant to bring in another agent. Further, the conversations were shot through with nicknames, slang, and messages predicated upon mutual understanding. Worse, quite often neither Fryant nor Behneman could positively identify a particular caller. After a few days, Fryant told Whitney that they needed help in creating the necessary documentation to corroborate their evidence. Whitney ordered Fryant to meet with his wife, Clara Whitney, who had been trained in dictation.57 Every second or third night, Fryant would give her his notes and she would begin to transcribe them into legible accounts. When time allowed, she then asked Fryant to read over her handwritten copies to make sure they were accurate.
On June 25, Roy Olmstead met with one of his coconspirators, Mark Fleming, to purchase some insurance. Fleming knew that Assistant District Attorney Clifford McKinney, Tom Revelle’s second in command, wanted to get in on the liquor money. McKinney, tall and thin with the charm of the boy next door, had indicated he was willing to sell information about Whitney’s unit, with which his office worked so closely, to the King of the Bootleggers. Roy handed Fleming three thousand dollars for McKinney.58
John McLean, Olmstead’s dispatcher, warned him on July 1, “The Feds are watching the place,” to which Olmstead replied, “Well, they might as well let down. They can’t buck this gang. We are too strong for them.” Olmstead’s confidence took a hit the following day when Whitney’s agents raided one of his warehouses. Olmstead wondered, “It seems strange that they got wise to that place so quick.” McLean suggested they have the telephone company look over the lines, as they might have been tapped. Olmstead offered, “No, I don’t think so; I don’t see how that can be done.”59
To be safe he brought in a repairman from the phone company to search for taps on the operation’s phone lines. The repairman found and removed taps attached to three lines, but Olmstead called him the next day to report that the phones had been tapped again. It did not occur to Olmstead to question how the taps had been discovered without discovering the tappers; either Fryant and Behneman were out when the repairman arrived or an arrangement had been made to deceive the bootlegger. He decided to disconnect the primary number used to receive orders and directed one of his lieutenants to contact all customers in person and tell them not to use the line any longer.60 Despite the concern over taps, Olmstead’s men continued to use phones, some with new numbers. Perhaps the rumrunner believed the cryptic conversations, full of nicknames, numbers, and abbreviations, contained little that eavesdroppers could decipher.
On July 14, Harry Behneman went to William Whitney and demanded payment for his services or he would quit and sell what he knew to Olmstead. Whitney was con
fident he had no further need for Behneman’s expertise now that the operation was up and running. Whitney offered him fifty dollars and told him to do as he pleased.61 Behneman departed and, unnoticed, took his notes with him.
Chapter 7
Almost from its enactment, people questioned whether Prohibition could work. Four years in, Mabel Willebrandt observed that passage of the Eighteenth Amendment had brought “one bad effect,” sowing the seeds of its possible ruin. Before the Eighteenth Amendment, twenty-three states had enacted Prohibition within their borders, and even those states without any restrictions on the manufacture, distribution, or sale of alcohol had organizations educating its citizenry on the dangers of alcohol to the family and society. After the amendment’s passage, many states abdicated their responsibilities to the federal government. Equally disconcerting to Willebrandt was the seeming disappearance of the social reformers who had carried the Eighteenth Amendment to passage. Liquor remained “as a scientific, social problem, as well as one of respect for the law,” she charged. As critics sought to answer whether Prohibition could work, Willebrandt believed it had not been given “half the kind of a trial nor half the earnest effort that can and must be put forward in order to succeed in the national undertaking.” She attributed the failure to three factors: lack of assistance from local communities, inefficient coordination among federal agencies, and “entirely too much politics.” The key to successful enforcement was community support. Willebrandt hoped communities and law enforcement at all levels would work together, efforts overlapping, with success in enforcement at the federal and local levels influencing public perception, which would reduce demand, pushing bootleggers from glamorous speakeasies to back alleys, “where no claim to respectability is made” and where politicians, eager to hold popular support, would be less likely to tread.1 A concerted effort on all fronts would win the day, but it started with recognition that each citizen was equally responsible to national and local laws.