The refined collector of modern art, that bon vivant whose nickname not so long ago had been Trigger Happy, blew his top when he was informed he and his brother would be transported directly to the county jail, in “protective custody.” He ranted and raved, and was hauled into a waiting van. The affront of subjecting a connoisseur of the finer things to ride in a paddy wagon was simply too much: Charley exploded.
So did his heart.
And Charley Fischetti got his way: he never had to set foot in that county jail, having died of a heart attack, en route.
Which meant he also avoided testifying in front of the Kefauver Committee, and avoided the wrath of the Outfit, for having disobeyed their collective ruling not to hit Bas and especially Drury.
Brother Rocco did testify — saying “I refuse to answer that” so many times he may have set the record in all of the Crime Committee hearings. (Joey was not called.)
An all-star rogues’ gallery testified in a hearing room at the Federal Building, and I — as a paid investigator on staff, now — heard a lot of it, one of a select handful of insiders allowed to sit in on the hearings, including Virgil Peterson and a few other civic leaders involved with the Chicago Crime Commission, as well that lawyer Kurnitz, who’d been working with the senator’s staffers.
“Why aren’t you up on the dais,” I asked Kurnitz, in the hallway between witnesses, “with Kefauver and his other lawyers?”
The handsome if bug-eyed Kurnitz replied in his courtroom baritone, “Well, of course you understand I’m not really a part of the senator’s staff.”
“I understood you were working for the committee.”
“
“And Jack Ruby?”
“Yes, him too.”
The mob all-stars (and in many cases, their lawyers) were kept in a little room fourteen foot square, blue with cigarette smoke, off a hallway that echoed with the chatter of typewriters and office machines, an unsettling symphony for the unlucky witnesses, who had been casually informed by a U.S. marshal that this was the IRS checking their tax records.
The straightback wooden chairs, primly lined along all four walls, were filled with some of the most celebrated criminal backsides not only in Chicago, but America. Be cause most were ex-cons, two chairs were left vacant between the parties, since associating with one another would be a parole violation. Short, square-shouldered Louie Campagna — a minor hoodlum from Capone/Nitti days who’d risen to some power — sat next to (that is, two empty seats away from) big, silver-haired, movie-star handsome Johnny Rosselli, the former’s baggy, slept-in-looking suit contrasting with the latter’s natty Hollywood threads.
Rosselli — and major L.A. mob boss Jack Dragna — were flown in from the coast, because of their connection to the race wire racket.
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.
