I knew Pearson was a booster of Kefauver’s, and the columnist had even been talking up the Tennessee senator as a possible presidential candidate. But I didn’t realize Pearson was — or anyway thought he was — a prime mover behind the mob inquiry.
Pearson was saying, “Hell, I was delighted when Estes introduced his resolution to investigate the rackets on a national scale. But then it got stalled in the Senate for lack of support — until I put the pressure on.”
“Who was trying to block it?”
“McCarran, for one — though technically McCarran is Kefauver’s boss, you know.”
Senator Pat McCarran of Nevada, home of Las Vegas, was — no shock here — in the mob’s pocket. McCarran was a Democrat who voted like a conservative Republican, one of the rabid anti-Commie crowd.
I was confused. “How in hell can McCarran be Kefauver’s boss, particularly when he tried to stop the investigation before it even started?”
Pearson shrugged, smiled his insider’s smile. “Kefauver’s committee ultimately reports to the Judiciary Committee, of which McCarran is chairman.”
“Christ.”
Pearson shifted in his seat. “And of course without the support of the Senate majority leader — Lucas, of your home state — Estes could never have launched his probe, in the first place. And initially Lucas was dead set against it.”
Pearson was referring to Scott Lucas, currently campaigning against Everett Dirksen.
“So I simply spoke to my good friend Scott,” Pearson continued, “and reminded him of certain rumors that he’d received big campaign contributions from Chicago gamblers. Pointed out that it would look very bad, if he continued to block the Kefauver investigation... and he graciously granted his support — Mortimer my ass! He’s a hack, a conniving hack.”
“What about these accusations he’s making about Halley?”
“Jack’s investigated Halley thoroughly...” Pearson meant Jack Anderson. “...and the man is a straight arrow. A partner in Halley’s law firm did indeed represent the railroad in question, the Hudson & Manhattan line, the one with the supposed gangster investors — a relationship that ended some time ago. Halley had no contact himself, and he’s been a dogged investigator, a relentless inquisitor in the hearings thus far.”
“What about his so-called Hollywood connections?”
“Nothing of substance there, either. His firm represents a distillery whose publicist has a few Hollywood clients. Typical Mortimer and Lait yellow journalism.”
Drew Pearson complaining about yellow journalism was like an infected mosquito bitching about yellow fever.
“Drew, do you have influence with Estes?”
Tiny shrug, twitch of the mustache. “Certainly.”
I nodded toward a certain photo on the wall. “Can you ask your friend from Tennessee to steer clear of our mutual friend Frankie?”
His eyes narrowed. “That might be difficult. An inquiry has to go wherever the truth leads.”
“Bullshit. Drew, this investigation has all sorts of political strings, and you damn well know it. Look at the emphasis on gambling — I don’t see the mob’s influence on big-city machine politics coming under the microscope.”
A more elaborate shrug. “...I can try.”
I leaned forward. “Certainly you can understand it would be devastating to Frank’s career right now, if he were called in front of TV cameras to testify about gangsters he met on his summer vacation.”
Nodding slowly, Pearson said, “Yes. I can understand that... I can but try.”
“Thank you. I’ll let him know — he’s under a hell of a lot of pressure. You see, Frank’s also got a problem with another Senate inquiry... courtesy of a certain old pal of ours.”
Pearson knew at once who I was talking about. “I can well imagine. Frank has a good heart — and he believes in the right causes. That’s enough to make him a ‘pinko’ in some circles. I can well imagine that ‘Tailgunner Joe’ might relish lining the Voice up in his capricious sights.”
“No imagining necessary. Really, that’s my main reason for coming to Washington... to try to reason with Joe McCarthy.”
“Well, then you’ll be the first one to manage that unlikely feat.”
I frowned. “Your relationship with McCarthy has completely soured?”
“It verges on war. Even he and Jack aren’t friendly, anymore.”
It might seem unlikely that Pearson and McCarthy had ever been soulmates, but the archliberal columnist and the ultraconservative senator had a shared interest in weeding out federal corruption. Pearson’s credentials in that arena were impeccable: he cracked the Russian spy ring in Canada; he exposed the Silvermaster Communist spy ring; and he ferreted out miscellaneous congressional skulduggery, ruining the careers of a number of powerful legislators.
Wisconsin’s McCarthy — elected to the Senate in 1946, in part by courting Communist support (“Communists have the same right to vote as anybody else, don’t they?” he’d asked rhetorically) — had been for several years a key Pearson source of inside info about his congressional colleagues and their secrets. I knew McCarthy because I followed leads he provided Pearson, about the so-called “five percenter” influence peddlers.
But earlier this year, after a national magazine rated him our nation’s worst senator, McCarthy bragged to Jack Anderson that he had come up with “one hell of an issue.” Shortly thereafter, McCarthy gave a speech to the no doubt bewildered little old ladies of the Republican Women’s Club of Ohio County, declaring to have “in his hand” a list of 205 members of the Communist Party, currently operating in the State Department, with the secretary of state’s blessing.
Never mind that within a day the list had dwindled to “fifty-seven card-carrying Communists”... or that Communist Party members hadn’t carried “cards” for years. McCarthy had made himself an instant household word... and a feared man in Washington.
Only, Drew Pearson didn’t fear anybody in Washington or anywhere else.
“Before he’s through,” Pearson was saying, “no one’s reputation will be safe — the whole political process will be poisoned.”
“He’s got a real, rabid following.”
“That’s why he’s got to be cut down now, before he becomes a walking national disaster area. Frank Sinatra? A Communist? Good Lord, where would such lunacy stop?”
“You’re losing a hell of an informant.”
“My best on the Hill,” Pearson admitted. “A good source, but a bad man... McCarthy’s already caught up in the demagogue’s compulsion toward escalation. He upgrades ‘fellow travelers’ into Communists, and pro-Communists into spies!”
“Well, your friend Estes has provided him the blueprint for witch-hunting. You have that coonskin cap to thank.”
Pearson’s nostrils flared, his eyes hardened. “Don’t compare the two, for God’s sake! Estes is a sincere, honest man, a true servant of the people. There’s something... pathological about McCarthy, some inner demon that pushes him to take extravagant risks.”
I shrugged. “Maybe he’ll undo himself.”
An eyebrow lifted. “Waiting until that time would be a risk too extravagant for me to take. I’ll handle this in my own fashion.”
“How?”
He nodded toward his battered old typewriter. “With my usual weapon — my column, my radio show. Within the coming weeks, every American will learn that their esteemed Red-busting hero has committed a laundry list of transgressions.”
Pearson began to enumerate: State Judge McCarthy had sold “quickie” divorces to campaign contributors; he had violated the Wisconsin constitution by running for Senate without resigning from the bench; his disbarment had been recommended by the State Board; he’d falsely attributed lavish campaign contributions to his father and brother, who didn’t make five grand a year between them; he retained his judgeship while serving in the Marines; he’d cheated on his income taxes; and he’d exaggerated his war record, a much publicized “wound” a phony...