society federal agents masquerading as representatives of a wealthy Arab sheik seeking legislative favors. Eventually six Congressmen and a senator were convicted of bribery despite their cries of entrapment.
Soon afterward, Sullivan met with FBI Director William Webster, a former federal judge, to consider whether anything like that could be attempted in Chicago. After all, the unified Cook County court system was too large for anyone to keep a watch over it all. There were three hundred and thirty-four judges, nearly twice as many as any other circuit court in America, and the growing backlog was being handled by five hundred assistant stateâs attorneys, some barely out of law school, as I had been. It didnât take a great defense lawyer to win acquittals, just bribes that went unnoticed by underpaid, overworked, and under-prepared assistant prosecutors. And now we were seeing corruption breeding corruption.
Sullivan suggested to Webster that they use the files in that cardboard box as background for going after specific targets. The FBI director was a reserved academic and troubled by what was happening in the halls of justice. Abscam had whetted his enthusiasm for long-term stings, and he answered, âI donât see why we donât try it.â But the House of Representatives might use any serious slip-up in the Chicago project to slash the Justice Departmentâs budget.
Not long after that meeting, Sullivanâs chief of special prosecutions, Gordon Nash, knocked on Reidyâs door and handed him the box with no more explanation than âHereâs the beginning of an investigation into judicial corruption.â That was how Reidy came to draft our strategy.
As it turned out, I was the second mole in the operation. There were many good agents already working in Chicago, but authorities wanted someone who had never made a local court appearance. With their survival instincts, corrupt lawyers develop a memory for faces.
Abscam prosecutions were still in the news in March 1980 when attorney David Victor Ries arrived in the cityâs canyon-like legal district and rented space at 2 North La Salle Street, where Bob Silverman had his offices. Ries had come from Detroit, so he was a new face, and he had an Illinois law license. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary as he handled cases in the Traffic Court Building in a former warehouse a few blocks away.
The Justice Department now needed a name for the investigation. âCoJud,â for âCorrupt Judges,â was too close to what it was about. âOperation Fly Catcherâ had been used for another kind of probe in Delaware. Then, sitting around their office on a slow day, supervisor Bob Farmer and agent Lamar Jordan choose a name at random. Since Farmer owned a few quarter horses, he suggested looking over the race results. Jordan glanced at a horseâs name in the back pages of the Chicago Sun-Times and said, âHow about âOperation Greylordâ?â The name had magic.
Ries continued strapping on a wire every morning before going to Traffic Court, but he just wasnât picking up any evidence because the lawyers were cool to every outsider. That was when Dan Reidy and the others realized they needed someone already working in the Criminal Courts Building halfway across the city, and drew up their long list of one.
4
THE FIXERS
June 1980
Judge Wayne Olson would rush through his call by dismissing the majority of cases so he could finish before two p.m. The frequent dismissals and suppression of evidence in his court were helping violent street gangs extend drug distribution by murder and intimidation through low-income neighborhoods, but he had his afternoons off.
A judgeâs chambers should be a sanctum of quiet dignity, but Olsonâs were more like an airport terminal with traffic when seen on fast-forward. Because he usually left the door open when he withdrew between his morning and afternoon calls,
Soon afterward, Sullivan met with FBI Director William Webster, a former federal judge, to consider whether anything like that could be attempted in Chicago. After all, the unified Cook County court system was too large for anyone to keep a watch over it all. There were three hundred and thirty-four judges, nearly twice as many as any other circuit court in America, and the growing backlog was being handled by five hundred assistant stateâs attorneys, some barely out of law school, as I had been. It didnât take a great defense lawyer to win acquittals, just bribes that went unnoticed by underpaid, overworked, and under-prepared assistant prosecutors. And now we were seeing corruption breeding corruption.
Sullivan suggested to Webster that they use the files in that cardboard box as background for going after specific targets. The FBI director was a reserved academic and troubled by what was happening in the halls of justice. Abscam had whetted his enthusiasm for long-term stings, and he answered, âI donât see why we donât try it.â But the House of Representatives might use any serious slip-up in the Chicago project to slash the Justice Departmentâs budget.
Not long after that meeting, Sullivanâs chief of special prosecutions, Gordon Nash, knocked on Reidyâs door and handed him the box with no more explanation than âHereâs the beginning of an investigation into judicial corruption.â That was how Reidy came to draft our strategy.
As it turned out, I was the second mole in the operation. There were many good agents already working in Chicago, but authorities wanted someone who had never made a local court appearance. With their survival instincts, corrupt lawyers develop a memory for faces.
Abscam prosecutions were still in the news in March 1980 when attorney David Victor Ries arrived in the cityâs canyon-like legal district and rented space at 2 North La Salle Street, where Bob Silverman had his offices. Ries had come from Detroit, so he was a new face, and he had an Illinois law license. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary as he handled cases in the Traffic Court Building in a former warehouse a few blocks away.
The Justice Department now needed a name for the investigation. âCoJud,â for âCorrupt Judges,â was too close to what it was about. âOperation Fly Catcherâ had been used for another kind of probe in Delaware. Then, sitting around their office on a slow day, supervisor Bob Farmer and agent Lamar Jordan choose a name at random. Since Farmer owned a few quarter horses, he suggested looking over the race results. Jordan glanced at a horseâs name in the back pages of the Chicago Sun-Times and said, âHow about âOperation Greylordâ?â The name had magic.
Ries continued strapping on a wire every morning before going to Traffic Court, but he just wasnât picking up any evidence because the lawyers were cool to every outsider. That was when Dan Reidy and the others realized they needed someone already working in the Criminal Courts Building halfway across the city, and drew up their long list of one.
4
THE FIXERS
June 1980
Judge Wayne Olson would rush through his call by dismissing the majority of cases so he could finish before two p.m. The frequent dismissals and suppression of evidence in his court were helping violent street gangs extend drug distribution by murder and intimidation through low-income neighborhoods, but he had his afternoons off.
A judgeâs chambers should be a sanctum of quiet dignity, but Olsonâs were more like an airport terminal with traffic when seen on fast-forward. Because he usually left the door open when he withdrew between his morning and afternoon calls,
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