Golden (30 page)

Emanuel worked closely with Blagojevich and Tusk to fashion a plan in which Blagojevich challenged the federal government to stop the state from importing prescription drugs from Canada or Europe. The plan made headlines around the world and helped bolster Blagojevich's image as a populist trying to help working men and women and seniors afford their medicine. It also gave Blagojevich a national platform to be known as “the health care governor.”

Blagojevich didn't discuss it much, but it was clear the governor wanted the national attention for whatever his next step would be in politics. He was a young Democratic governor with a great ethnic-boy-makes-good tale to tell. He was a former congressman and a great fundraiser. He could be on a national ticket. A run for president in 2008 wasn't out of the question.

Meanwhile, the men Blagojevich was setting up as insiders were only growing in influence. Blagojevich told Chris Kelly he wanted him to be the point person on a controversial plan to build a new casino in suburban Rosemont. The governor knew Kelly was a big gambler in Las Vegas and somehow felt his knowledge of the industry would help him understand the negotiations.

It was unclear if Blagojevich knew it at the time, but Kelly was doing more than just occasionally going to Vegas. He was flying out there nearly every weekend, gambling tens of thousands of dollars at a time. Between 2000 and 2005, federal authorities would later allege, he gambled away more than $1.3 million. To cover it up, he cheated on his taxes and paid off bookies with his businesses' checkbooks. What also was not known publicly was that in early 2003 Tony Rezko had an option to lease a site for a hotel next to the proposed casino land.

The casino, to be called the Emerald, had been held up for years by state regulators who were concerned about mob influence. That delay, along with infighting among investors, created a legal morass. Blagojevich saw the Emerald as a way to help the state's struggling finances, but the pushy Kelly's sudden involvement rubbed regulators the wrong way.

Unconcerned that a bankruptcy judge had jurisdiction over Emerald, the governor's general counsel, Susan Lichtenstein, orchestrated a conference
call between Emerald's bankruptcy attorney and two attorneys from the Gaming Board, Mark Ostrowski and Michael Fries. Also on the call was Oscar David, an attorney with Winston & Strawn, the law firm run by former governor Thompson. David said he was acting as outside counsel to the governor. Lichtenstein got on the phone and berated both sides to strike a deal, saying the matter had been “negotiated to death” and that she wanted to give the governor some “good news.” David reiterated the point.

Around the same time, another attorney working for the state on the Emerald case revealed that he was asked to meet somebody connected to the governor to talk about the case. That was Kelly. Nobody in the room knew who Kelly was except the chairman of the Gaming Board, politically connected developer Elzie Higginbottom. “He's a roofer,” Higginbottom said before explaining Kelly's ties to Blagojevich and recommending the attorney not break the appointment.

Kelly soon began bullying his way through Gaming Board meetings. He demanded answers and cut people off as they spoke. When others tried to find out why he was there, Kelly answered that the governor wanted him there as his emissary to ensure a deal got done. At one meeting at the Gaming Board's offices across the street from the Thompson Center, Kelly went so far as to individually point at Ostrowski, Fries, and the acting board administrator at the time, Jeannette Tamayo, and say, “I don't care about you, you, or you. All I care about is him,” and then swiveling his pointed finger across the street toward the governor's office.

The Gaming Board staffers didn't take kindly to Kelly's involvement, and his presence and antics at meetings were eventually revealed in a
Chicago Tribune
story. Kelly did not waste time complaining to Ostrowski, Fries, and Tamayo that his “credibility [was] on the line” and insisted Gaming Board officials stop being so difficult toward Emerald and reach a deal, which would result in people with possible mob ties getting money.

Following one meeting, Kelly, clearly angry, got nose to nose with Fries and placed his right hand on Fries's shoulder. “So who do you think dropped the dime on the governor, Mike?” Kelly asked, clearly implying that Fries had spoken to the
Tribune.

“I don't know, Chris. It could have been anybody,” Fries replied.

Kelly stared for a few moments considering the response. He finally smiled, said, “Good answer,” and abruptly left without saying another word.

After Kelly's involvement was made public, pressure from the governor's office lessened. Eventually, Lisa Madigan killed a deal that would have
allowed another company to open a casino in Rosemont, saying Rosemont Mayor Donald Stephens and the town as a whole were too closely linked to organized crime. Three years later, Stephens died, having never seen a casino built in his town. The state eventually stripped Emerald of the casino license and awarded it to a company that opened up a casino in nearby Des Plaines, where it could be seen from Rosemont's city hall.

Blagojevich's lack of hands-on leadership and extemporized decision making was most evident in the department responsible for hiring employees— the office of intergovernmental affairs.

Blagojevich had put Joe Cini, his former congressional campaign fundraiser, in charge of the office. Since working for Mell, Cini had moved on to work for the city, but when Illinois's new governor called, Cini was excited to join the state's first Democratic administration in a quarter century and saw an opportunity to boost his career. Those concerns he had back in 1996 about working for the overly demanding Blagojevich faded quickly.

Still, Cini initially didn't want the intergovernmental affairs job. He twice turned Blagojevich down because he didn't think it was the right fit. But Blagojevich insisted, picking up the phone while on vacation in Puerto Rico to ask Cini a third time. That had done the trick. Cini couldn't turn down a governor three times.

Whether Cini wanted it or not, heading up intergovernmental affairs was a highly valuable position. In any government, but especially Illinois, doling out jobs was a big part and a big perk of being governor. In a previous era, Cini's title wouldn't have been wrapped up in ambiguous jargon; he would have simply been called what he was: “the governor's patronage chief.” And Cini was finding himself in a stronger position than some of his predecessors because of Executive Order 1.

Blagojevich liked Cini because he was loyal. He also had good relationships with politicians all over the state, especially the old timers Blagojevich knew would come calling, looking for jobs from him for their friends and associates.

As expected, before Cini even started, the resumes began pouring in from nearly every politician in the state. Most were from Democrats, but a few came from Republicans who thought they were on good paper with the new governor. Ward bosses, suburban elected officials, Chicago aldermen,
state legislators. Staffers got so inundated they didn't know how to organize the nearly twenty thousand names. They first piled their resumes based on what sorts of positions the people wanted—accountants, human services, corrections. But many didn't have a preference. They just wanted a government job. And when the politicians began to call Cini's office to check on the progress of their candidates, staffers had to comb through piles of paperwork.

Cini called Lon Monk and told him he had two choices: either eliminate the office of intergovernmental affairs altogether or start tracking all the names on state computers. It would list the names of the candidates, the status of their search, and which politician or person referred them. Not only would it help them get answers for the politicians when they called, it could help the administration keep track of whose favors were being granted.

What made matters worse was Cini, who had no experience in government hiring, didn't know the intricate rules and laws governing how it was supposed to be legally conducted. Some jobs, the high-level ones, could legally be straight political patronage. But many had to abide by restrictions ensuring all citizens had a fair shot at getting a state job. To try to navigate the morass, Cini was in constant communication with the governor's general counsel's office and even outside attorneys from the Chicago law firm Jenner and Block. “We did not know how to run state government,” said one former intergovernmental affairs official. “It was chaos.”

In just the first few months, Rezko submitted about a hundred people's names. On the lists kept by Cini's office, staffers placed the initials “TR” next to those he recommended. Rezko then followed up with phone calls to Cini. Both men were extremely busy so it wasn't unusual for Cini to miss the call and then miss Rezko when he called back. Eventually, they both decided it was easier to meet once a week—on Monday mornings between eight and nine—at Rezmar's offices so Cini could update him on the status of his names. Cini brought along an assistant, Jennifer Thomas, who carefully took notes.

The office of intergovernmental affairs soon existed for almost no other reason than to receive names of candidates from politicians and insiders. In Springfield, officials even set up a special room to receive faxes of resumes from insiders so they could jump to the head of the hiring line. Some connected employees—ranging in age from thirty-five to sixty—got internships intended for college kids. Military veterans who were supposed to get first crack at state jobs were shunted to the side for connected people in Chicago,
who got hired for jobs in rural counties a hundred miles away only to then be allowed to work closer to home.

Among those getting jobs under questionable circumstances was the wife of Blagojevich's longtime friend, Michael Ascaridis—“Lou Nova.” In August 2003, Beverly Ascaridis got a $45,000-a-year job as a state parks administrator. Hers was one of the names funneled through the special office. On top of that, less than two weeks after she started the job, Michael Ascaridis wrote a $1,500 check out to Blagojevich's daughter Amy for her seventh birthday, which the Blagojeviches cashed. It was a massive sum for a girl's birthday gift, and Beverly Ascaridis would say later that even she didn't know at the time her husband had written it. But after discovering it, the situation began to gnaw on her. Something was weird about it.

While there was no evidence anybody inside the office of intergovernmental affairs knew about the check, several felt similarly weird about everything going on with hiring, though none thought what was happening was illegal. This was just how it was done in Illinois. The Republicans did it for a quarter century. Now it was the Democrats' turn.

While Blagojevich was helping some legislators get jobs for friends, campaign donors, and constituents, that wasn't enough for them to begin trusting him. And Madigan was already becoming the top opposition leader.

When Blagojevich in early 2004 pitched a plan to take over the state board of education, making his case in a speech before the legislature in which he demeaned and insulted the board and its unsuspecting director as he sat in the audience, Madigan forced Blagojevich to accept a different version of the plan. But Blagojevich wasn't going to back down as easily on the biggest issue—the state budget.