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A small radio was playing the World Series—and the rapt attention of these sports fans was fixed upon the action of the Yankees clobbering the Phillies…almost as if money were riding on the outcome.

For the several days of the hearings, the room—littered with cigarette butts, candy wrappers and newspapers—was mostly filled with men, and famous ones at that: Paul “the Waiter” Ricca; Tony “Joe Batters” Accardo; Al Capone’s brother Ralph; Murray “the Hump” Humphries; Charlie “Cherry Nose” Gioe. The lone woman was Mrs. Charles Fischetti— Anne—a slender, pretty blonde flown up here from Miami; wearing widow’s weeds, she appeared with an attorney, and she rivaled Rocco in the number of times she said, “I refuse to answer that.”

Though these were closed sessions—excluding the public and press…no TV this round!—Kefauver himself would brief the press at the end of the day, giving them a thumbnail description of the testimony. An exception to this procedure, however, was part of the unusual courtesy paid to one witness, Captain Dan “Tubbo” Gilbert.

Under fire from Senator Lucas and other Democratic big-wigs, Kefauver agreed not to subpoena sheriff’s candidate Tubbo—merely extending an invitation to him to appear, on the eve of the election, to give him an opportunity to address the press feeding frenzy over Gilbert’s questionable finances and dubious police practices.

But Kefauver was not entirely caving in to political pressure, because he announced the invitation to the press, which put pressure on Tubbo to comply, though at first the esteemed chief investigator of the State’s Attorney’s office refused the invite.

Then, one afternoon, unannounced, wearing a three-piece tailored brown tweed suit, silk gold-and-yellow tie, and his ruby stickpin, the jovial Tubbo—without an attorney at his side!— just showed the hell up, and expressed a willingness to answer questions. The decks were cleared, and a seat at the witness table made available.

The hearing room was wide and narrow, the gallery consisting of a dozen seats on one side with an aisle and another dozen seats on the other—very few filled, just Peterson and a couple of his people, and Kurnitz and myself. A courtroom atmosphere prevailed: the witness table faced a long bench on a dais in a room made somber by the institutional green plaster walls with dark-oak wainscoting and gilt-framed prints of Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and FDR (other than Illinois’s own Honest Abe, no Republicans, of course—maybe next administration).

Behind the bench on the dais, framed by windows with their blinds drawn, Lincolnesque Kefauver was flanked by his youthful, moon-faced chief counsel, Rudolph Halley, and fiftyish, professorial George Robinson, their associate counsel. All three men wore dark suits and ties and glasses, quite a contrast to Tubbo’s jaunty, dapper attire. No microphones were necessary, and a court recorder sat off to one side, a businesslike young brunette with dark-rimmed glasses and flying fingers.

From private conversation with him, I knew the senator was embarrassed and, well, pissed-off that the other members of the Crime Committee—even Senator Charles Tobey, a Republican who relished castigating thugs for their immorality and misdeeds—had chosen not to come to Chicago and share the political risks.

“Let the record show,” Senator Kefauver said, “that Captain Gilbert was not subpoenaed to come before this committee. You came of your own free will and accord, is that correct?”

“Yes, and let me say at the outset,” Tubbo replied cheerfully, his chin held high (anyway, his first chin), “that I will cooperate one hundred percent. My reason for appearing is the fact that the press has been carrying some malicious stories about me…and, of course, as chief investigator of Cook County, I felt as though I would be doing my duty to come here.”

For several minutes, Kefauver posed background questions—about Tubbo’s age (sixty-one), his family (grandfather of four), his rise to power in law enforcement (swift), and the nature of Captain Gilbert’s job (buck-passing). Tubbo was relaxed and breezy in his responses. When Kefauver shifted gears, it wasn’t immediately apparent.

“The man you work for, State’s Attorney John S. Boyle, has described you as…” Kefauver adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, as he read from a yellow pad. “…‘one of the hardest-working police officers I have ever known.’”

Tubbo shrugged, smiled contentedly. “That’s generous of him.”

Halley was already smirking, as he introduced the voluntary witness to his high-pitched, lispy, sarcastic vocal style: “Mr. Boyle also admits you have a reputation as a gambler, and of playing the stock market heavily.”

Another shrug. “Well, I guess you’d say I’m a gambler at heart.”

Robinson chimed sternly in: “And what do you think about a sheriff being a gambler, Mr. Gilbert?”

“I don’t feel it’s any violation of my oath of office—if a fellow wants to bet against me, I am willing to bet.”

“What sort of bet?”

“Well, I bet on football games. I bet on prize fights…but mostly on elections.”

“Elections,” Halley cut in. His upper lip twitched in a sneer. “And how big are these election bets?”

“Oh, in 1936 I think I won around $10,000 or $12,000. In the last presidential election, I picked up around $1,500 by taking odds of seven to one that President Truman would be reelected…. I haven’t lost an election bet since 1921.”

The three men on the dais were clearly amazed by the pride of the last statement.

Finally, Kefauver said. “Your income tax returns, Captain, indicate considerable yearly profits from gambling.”

Yet another shrug. “I never denied doing a little honest gambling on the side.”

Halley leaned forward. “What would you say is your net worth today?”

“Oh…I would say if I sold everything, half a million dollars, something in that neighborhood.”

“Half a million dollars,” Kefauver said, staring at the witness, as if having trouble bringing the chubby, well-dressed cop into focus. “Working as a law enforcement officer on a ten-thousand-dollar-a-year salary—half a million dollars.”

Tubbo seemed neither embarrassed nor defensive—just matter of fact, as he replied, “Mostly it was done through investments—in stocks, bonds, from market tips that friends give me.”

“Friends. Could you give us an example of these friends?”

The big man leaned back in his chair, folding his arms, searching the ceiling for facts. “Well, let me see…. I believe I got my first important stock tip from George Brennan—I was his chauffeur, and a kind of bodyguard, oh, twenty-five, thirty years ago.”

That was Boss Brennan, who had then controlled the Democratic machine in Chicago.

Halley’s shrill voice sliced the air like a scalpel. “Captain Gilbert, getting back to your net worth—can you understand how difficult it is to comprehend how a public servant like yourself got hold of all that money?”

Gilbert then explained, in some detail, how he was trying to invest for his son, how he was worried that on a public servant’s salary he couldn’t provide well enough for his family…and how he had “pyramided” his holdings to $100,000 in the bull market, losing all but $15,000 in the crash of ’29. But he had rebuilt—speculating in grain, diversifying by purchasing shares of Pepsi Cola, Union Pacific, and AT&T.

Halley seemed spellbound by this recitation of financial legerdemain, but finally blurted: “Captain Gilbert, may I ask a question?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“When do you find time to take care of your law enforcement duties?”

“Why, every day—sometimes twenty-four hours when we are working cases.”

“To me, you have quite an active financial business that would have to be watched very closely.”

Shrug. “The telephone is all that does it. The broker I’m dealing with will call me up.”

Halley’s expression might be seen at a car wreck—a bad one, involving fatalities. “You don’t think this interferes with your law enforcement duties?”