expanded to New York, where he felt right at home amid the corrupt politicians of Tammany Hall. After lining the pockets of Mayor Robert Van Wyck and Tammany boss Richard Croker, Morse set out to win complete control of New Yorkâs ice business, which, in the days before electric refrigeration, was a multimillion-dollar utility. He formed the Consolidated Ice Company, merged it with the American Ice Company, then sharply boosted the price of ice. Morse was unfamiliar with the scent of food rotting for want of cold, and so he underestimated the intense public reaction to his gambit. An investigation disclosed his bribes to political patrons and ended his brief run as the âIce King.â But not before he siphoned off a cool $12 million in profit.
Morse returned to his shipping roots, establishing a virtual East Coast monopoly. Then he bought a dozen or so New York banks and attempted to corner the copper market with a small group of like-minded monopolists. The collapse of that effort contributed to the nationâs 1907 financial panic, which would be remembered as a crisis caused by the soon-to-be familiar demons of irresponsible speculation, widespread financial mismanagement, and inadequate regulation. Morseâs high public profile made him an appealing target for authorities who had slept through the run-up, and he was soon indicted. Convicted of misappropriating bank funds, in January 1910 Morse was sentenced to fifteen years in the Atlanta prison.
Like his prison mates Ponzi and Lupo, Morse considered himself a victim of overzealous prosecutors, calling his sentence âthe most brutal . . . ever pronounced against a citizen in a civilized country.â More convincingly, he added: âThere is no one in Wall Street who is not doing daily as I have done.â Morse had no intention of serving out his sentence; he hired lawyers who would help him press his case all the way to the White House. As part of the campaign, he won support from luminaries such as Clarence W. Barron, owner of the
Wall Street Journal
and hailed as the father of financial journalism. Barron appealed directly to President William Taft for leniency. On a parallel track, Morse suddenly displayed signs of a mysterious illness that his lawyers claimed left him only days from death. Morseâs condition was confirmed by doctors at an army hospital, and his retinue whipped up public support for a presidential pardon on humanitarian grounds. In January 1912, thirteen years before the court-imposed end of Morseâs sentence, Taft granted him an unconditional release.
Morse left immediately for a European vacation, having regained his robust health almost within moments of Taftâs pen stroke. Later it was disclosed that Morse had poisoned himself by eating soap shavings before each medical exam. The toxins left his system as quickly as the doctors left his bedside.
From his post as a prison clerk, Ponzi watched with astonishment and admiration as the Morse episode unfolded before him. Even before he knew the details of the deathâs-door medical ruse, Ponzi suspected Morse was gaming the system. When Morse was freed, Ponzi learned a lesson he would never forget: The American legal system is kinder and gentler to men with money. If a man is rich, powerful, and well-connected, he can escape prison through the front gate.
At the moment, though, Ponzi was in no position to put that knowledge into practice. He was too broke to buy his way out of anything. The summer after Morse was freed, Ponzi completed his two-year term, plus an extra month tacked on for his inability to pay his five-hundred-dollar fine.
P onzi had had enough of Atlanta, so he headed west to Birmingham, Alabama, for no other reason than it was a city where he had yet to try his luck. Not long after arriving in Birmingham, Ponzi met up with a fellow he had known years earlier during his travels. The man was making a killing by filing false medical claims
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