“I’m not surprised to hear that. Still, there’s quite a history, isn’t there? Here’s one story I can tell you. Several years ago, when Charlie and I were living in Manhattan, we threw a small party for our daughter Mary’s first birthday. Charlie had told some of our guests that Al Capone was going to show up. When they learned it was just another one of his gags, everybody laughed it off except an Italian opera singer named Lucrezia Bori, who had really believed Capone was going to be there. She was angry, and to calm her, Charlie somehow got hold of Capone’s number in Chicago and telephoned him. It turned out that Capone was a big fan of Lucrezia and her singing, but he wouldn’t believe she was on the line until she sang an aria. She did, and then Capone knew it was her and everybody was happy.”
“That’s quite a story,” I told her as we got to the hotel and went through the revolving door into the lower lobby.
“I’ll never forget that evening,” Helen Hayes said. “And this has been a very pleasant evening, too, Mr. Steven ‘Snap’ Malek. You are engaging company, and I wish you the best in your work and in your personal life. By the way, on top of everybody else you’ve met in your interesting life, I don’t suppose you knew Al Capone, too, did you?”
My answer was a smile, and we shook hands like old friends in the lower lobby of the Palmer House.
Chapter 2
I knew Al Capone.
In March of ’34, the year Dillinger got killed, I was at my desk one morning in the County Building pressroom working the Examiner crossword puzzle when I got a call from Michael J. Ahern, who was in the café across the street and wanted me to join him. When I asked why I was being so honored, he cryptically replied, “I’ll tell you when you get here. And I promise you won’t find it a waste of your time.”
“Iron Mike” Ahern had been the lead defense attorney in Capone’s well-publicized federal tax trial three years earlier, and I was one of the Tribune team covering the trial. My assignment was to do color pieces — human-interest stuff, like describing the courtroom, the judge’s mood, how many jurors fell asleep (the record was three in one session), who of note was in the audience, and so forth.
One day the British actress, Beatrice Lillie, in Chicago to be in a stage play, showed up in court and stayed most of the afternoon. When she left, I caught up with her in the hall and was pleased with the quotes I got for the next day’s edition. Among them: “I thought the whole proceedings lacked passion” and “I was a bit put out that Judge Wilkerson didn’t have one of those powdered wigs like they do back home — I think he would have looked adorable in one.”
I was a damn sight less pleased when the American carried almost the same quotes, along with reproductions of sketches — good sketches — that Miss Lillie had drawn of Capone, the judge, and the state’s attorney. To quote my father, “Never trust a limey.”
I had of course gotten to know Mike Ahern during the weeks of the trial. He was natty, urbane, and always ready with good quotes and historical or literary references. He knew what made for good copy, and in the courtroom had once described Capone as “a modern mythical Robin Hood, a creation of the newspapers.” On another occasion, he used the name of the Roman soldier and statesman Cato to underscore a point he was driving home. Nevertheless, I always felt he and his partner, Albert Fink, had done a second-rate job of defending Capone.
I hadn’t seen Ahern since Capone got sentenced, but I recognized him through the haze when I entered the café, a favorite hangout of lawyers and politicians, even through he was in the booth farthest from the front. In his vested pinstripe, he was easily the best-dressed patron in the place, and possibly the most distinguished-looking, too. With his well-tended hair, rimless glasses, and benign expression, he could have passed for a Presbyterian minister at a very large and very prosperous North Shore church. But he was by no means a ministerial type.
“Mr. Malek, thank you so much for taking time out of your busy schedule,” he said amiably, rising to shake my hand. “And so good to see you again, you’re looking well. Sit down, sit down. Care for some breakfast? I’m about to order eggs and sausage. As I’m sure you know from working across the street, the link sausage here is absolutely the best in the Loop. Maybe in the whole city, for that matter.”
“Coffee is fine for me, thanks, Counselor. Haven’t been hearing much about you lately. You still making a career out of defending the indefensible, the vicious, and the venal?”
“Ah, Mr. Malek, you have not changed an iota since last we met. Still as tart-tongued and outspoken as ever. As to your question: Would you, a member in good standing of the Fourth Estate and as such a supposed defender of our Federal Constitution and the American system of jurisprudence, honestly deny legal representation for any citizen?”
“I’m all for giving everybody the opportunity of legal representation, Counselor. But here’s what interests me about your clientele: maybe it’s coincidence, but you often seem to have mobsters as clients.”
Ahern spread his arms, palms up, and looked at the ceiling. “It was George Barrow who said ‘Follow your calling, however various your talents may be.’ Mr. Malek, what humble talents have been bestowed upon me by the Almighty seem best suited to defending those whom society has chosen to damn as members of the underworld — often without reason or adequate evidence for making such a judgment. These men, many among the most earnest and hard-working members of the populace, are entitled to an adequate defense in our courts, which I try to provide to the best of my limited abilities.”
“You know, I could listen to you go on like that all day, even if at least eighty percent of it is bilge,” I told him, grinning. “You could charm the hard-earned shillings out of a Scotsman’s purse. But as you mentioned earlier yourself, I have a busy schedule. To what do I owe this summons?”
Ahern shot his cuffs, crossed his arms on the table, and leaned forward, looking at me intently. “It has to do with Alphonse,” he said, lowering his voice despite all the babel around us.
“One of your better-known cases,” I remarked dryly. “You still in touch with Capone? I thought he was pissed off at you and Fink after the way you handled — or mishandled — his tax trial.”
The lawyer colored slightly and cleared his throat. “I think Alphonse has come to the awareness that defending him was a more difficult task than he realized. Not long ago, he hired a supposedly high-powered Washington attorney named Leahy to get him out of prison, and Mr. Leahy failed. And now... well, he has rehired our firm.”
“For what? Does he want you to help him tunnel his way out of the big house down in Atlanta?”
“Oddly enough, he’s trying to do precisely the opposite,” the lawyer remarked, dropping his theatrical tone. “I assume that you’ve read about the new maximum-security prison the federal government is planning to open later this year out in San Francisco?”
“Out on that island?”
Ahern nodded gravely. “It’s called Alcatraz, which is Spanish for ‘the Isle of Pelicans.’ And I also assume you’ve heard via your very efficient grapevine that Alphonse may be headed for the new penitentiary.”
“You assume correctly, Counselor. I’ve also heard the feds are sore because ol’ Scarface has too damn much freedom down in Atlanta, which is embarrassing for them. They want to rein him in, or so the word is.”