From today's Chicago Tribune... John Kass Column.
http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/colu ... olumn.html
The Chicago Outfit, Chicago police and the silence of consent.
Chicago is loud about its sports and its politics. But noise doesn't tell you the whole story.
Sometimes, it's silence that can tell you the truth of things.
And Chicago was never so silent than on the day the feds indicted former Chief of Detectives William Hanhardt.
In Italy, they have a phrase for this silence.
"Chi tace acconsente," said my excellent barber, Raffaele Raia, born near Salerno.
"He who is silent says yes," Raia translated. "The silence is the consent."
For decades, Hanhardt, who died the other day at 88, was a hero cop lionized in Chicago media as a great crime fighter.
But according to the feds, he was Joey "The Clown" Lombardo's guy.
As chief of detectives he was the de facto boss of the Chicago police. An officer needed his blessing to make detective, or get a transfer, or a promotion. When he'd show up at a police district, cops would crowd around him, around that Sinatra vibe. He was a rock star.
William Hanhardt, former Chicago police official convicted of running jewelry theft ring, dies at 88.
He had Hollywood connections, serving as technical adviser on the movie "Thief" with James Caan, and once appearing as a hit man in the TV show "Crime Story," where his buddy, the late cop turned actor Dennis Farina played a Hanhardt-like crime-buster.
Farina, the Hanhardt avatar, solved big crimes, catching dangerous and violent home invaders and cartage thieves, just like in real life.
Oh, and he fought the Chicago mob, too, on TV.
In reality, the feds considered Hanhardt the Chicago Outfit's main man in the Police Department from the time he put on a badge to begin his 33-year career.
And when he was indicted by a federal grand jury of running an Outfit sponsored nationwide jewelry theft ring in 2000 — and using Chicago police information to make the scores — an amazing thing happened.
Chicago, so often so very loud, went stone-cold silent.
Police bosses called me out of the blue to say they were retiring, or finding new careers. They didn't know anything about Hanhardt or his theft-ring partner, Paul "The Indian" Schiro.
"Just wanted you to know about the Serbia thing," said one friend of Hanhardt's.
I didn't ask you about going to Serbia, I said.
"Well, just so you know," he said. "I'm going."
And the politicians? They didn't want to hear the questions.
Mayor Richard Daley was the most fidgety. Asked about Hanhardt, he'd start stammering and sweating.
Aldermen had nothing to say, state legislators, judges and so on. And even the good-government types were silent.
If they opened their mouths, they risked angering people who have tempers and cattle prods, guys who can put out a fire all the way from Melrose Park.
Politicians didn't want questions about the history of the gangs and City Hall.
So they zipped their lips.
Hanhardt pleaded guilty without a deal, to prevent a trial. He was old school, and by then an old man, and he went down alone, brave, and keeping his mouth shut.
Without a trial, official Chicago could ignore Hanhardt. Without a trial, cop bosses wouldn't be hauled in, and there wouldn't be any references to the nexus between Chicago politics and organized crime and law enforcement.
Politicians could stay silent about the reasons Chicago was the city that worked, just like they'll stay silent now about the convictions of the violent Hobos gang members on Wednesday, or trials of the Mexican throat-cutters who come over the border and park dead bodies on the Southwest Side near Midway Airport.
The Hanhardt conviction was one of most significant cases ever for the FBI, and its organized crime unit led by special agent Ted McNamara.
Gary Shapiro, the longtime first deputy U.S. attorney, now retired, explained.
"I've been involved in investigating organized crime cases in Chicago for the better part of 30 years, and a lot of that time has been involved in the investigation of Bill Hanhardt," Shapiro said after Hanhardt pleaded guilty. "Hanhardt for decades has been a corrupt policeman."
Years before, Shapiro went to City Hall to inform the politicians that Hanhardt shouldn't be promoted, because he was the Outfit's man.
Hanhardt was promoted.
Did Hanhardt make dangerous arrests of tough, violent killers? Yes. He had the courage for it.
Was he tipped off by the Outfit to pinch those who didn't pay them street tax?
Yeah, I've heard that theory, too.
And other theories, about burglars rounded up after Tony Accardo's house was robbed. And still others about a little man from Grand Avenue and a dead oil executive.
A few days ago I went to Hanhardt's wake. I had to go, because he's always fascinated me.
Maybe it was that old school demeanor. When he pleaded guilty, he lifted his water glass to me and grinned in salute and I owed him some respect.
In the funeral home, along with the flowers there were news photos and copies of stories from the days when the Chicago media made him a hero.
A few family members asked me to be fair to the dead.
Then, a few feet from the coffin, a little guy came up, not that little guy from Grand Avenue, some other little guy.
"You should get outta here," said the little guy, putting on a show as if he were in a movie.
I told him not to touch me again.
"The family don't want a scene," he said.
The crowded funeral parlor had gone silent. The guys who walked me out were silent.
And it was silent outside.
Listen to The Chicago Way podcast with John Kass and Jeff Carlin here: wgnradio.com/category/wgn-plus/category/thechicagoway.
jskass@chicagotribune.com Twitter@John_Kass
From today's Chicago Tribune... John Kass Column.
http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/columnists/kass/ct-bill-hanhardt-kass-0105-20170104-column.html
The Chicago Outfit, Chicago police and the silence of consent.
Chicago is loud about its sports and its politics. But noise doesn't tell you the whole story.
Sometimes, it's silence that can tell you the truth of things.
And Chicago was never so silent than on the day the feds indicted former Chief of Detectives William Hanhardt.
In Italy, they have a phrase for this silence.
"Chi tace acconsente," said my excellent barber, Raffaele Raia, born near Salerno.
"He who is silent says yes," Raia translated. "The silence is the consent."
For decades, Hanhardt, who died the other day at 88, was a hero cop lionized in Chicago media as a great crime fighter.
But according to the feds, he was Joey "The Clown" Lombardo's guy.
As chief of detectives he was the de facto boss of the Chicago police. An officer needed his blessing to make detective, or get a transfer, or a promotion. When he'd show up at a police district, cops would crowd around him, around that Sinatra vibe. He was a rock star.
William Hanhardt, former Chicago police official convicted of running jewelry theft ring, dies at 88.
He had Hollywood connections, serving as technical adviser on the movie "Thief" with James Caan, and once appearing as a hit man in the TV show "Crime Story," where his buddy, the late cop turned actor Dennis Farina played a Hanhardt-like crime-buster.
Farina, the Hanhardt avatar, solved big crimes, catching dangerous and violent home invaders and cartage thieves, just like in real life.
Oh, and he fought the Chicago mob, too, on TV.
In reality, the feds considered Hanhardt the Chicago Outfit's main man in the Police Department from the time he put on a badge to begin his 33-year career.
And when he was indicted by a federal grand jury of running an Outfit sponsored nationwide jewelry theft ring in 2000 — and using Chicago police information to make the scores — an amazing thing happened.
Chicago, so often so very loud, went stone-cold silent.
Police bosses called me out of the blue to say they were retiring, or finding new careers. They didn't know anything about Hanhardt or his theft-ring partner, Paul "The Indian" Schiro.
"Just wanted you to know about the Serbia thing," said one friend of Hanhardt's.
I didn't ask you about going to Serbia, I said.
"Well, just so you know," he said. "I'm going."
And the politicians? They didn't want to hear the questions.
Mayor Richard Daley was the most fidgety. Asked about Hanhardt, he'd start stammering and sweating.
Aldermen had nothing to say, state legislators, judges and so on. And even the good-government types were silent.
If they opened their mouths, they risked angering people who have tempers and cattle prods, guys who can put out a fire all the way from Melrose Park.
Politicians didn't want questions about the history of the gangs and City Hall.
So they zipped their lips.
Hanhardt pleaded guilty without a deal, to prevent a trial. He was old school, and by then an old man, and he went down alone, brave, and keeping his mouth shut.
Without a trial, official Chicago could ignore Hanhardt. Without a trial, cop bosses wouldn't be hauled in, and there wouldn't be any references to the nexus between Chicago politics and organized crime and law enforcement.
Politicians could stay silent about the reasons Chicago was the city that worked, just like they'll stay silent now about the convictions of the violent Hobos gang members on Wednesday, or trials of the Mexican throat-cutters who come over the border and park dead bodies on the Southwest Side near Midway Airport.
The Hanhardt conviction was one of most significant cases ever for the FBI, and its organized crime unit led by special agent Ted McNamara.
Gary Shapiro, the longtime first deputy U.S. attorney, now retired, explained.
"I've been involved in investigating organized crime cases in Chicago for the better part of 30 years, and a lot of that time has been involved in the investigation of Bill Hanhardt," Shapiro said after Hanhardt pleaded guilty. "Hanhardt for decades has been a corrupt policeman."
Years before, Shapiro went to City Hall to inform the politicians that Hanhardt shouldn't be promoted, because he was the Outfit's man.
Hanhardt was promoted.
Did Hanhardt make dangerous arrests of tough, violent killers? Yes. He had the courage for it.
Was he tipped off by the Outfit to pinch those who didn't pay them street tax?
Yeah, I've heard that theory, too.
And other theories, about burglars rounded up after Tony Accardo's house was robbed. And still others about a little man from Grand Avenue and a dead oil executive.
A few days ago I went to Hanhardt's wake. I had to go, because he's always fascinated me.
Maybe it was that old school demeanor. When he pleaded guilty, he lifted his water glass to me and grinned in salute and I owed him some respect.
In the funeral home, along with the flowers there were news photos and copies of stories from the days when the Chicago media made him a hero.
A few family members asked me to be fair to the dead.
Then, a few feet from the coffin, a little guy came up, not that little guy from Grand Avenue, some other little guy.
"You should get outta here," said the little guy, putting on a show as if he were in a movie.
I told him not to touch me again.
"The family don't want a scene," he said.
The crowded funeral parlor had gone silent. The guys who walked me out were silent.
And it was silent outside.
Listen to The Chicago Way podcast with John Kass and Jeff Carlin here: wgnradio.com/category/wgn-plus/category/thechicagoway.
jskass@chicagotribune.com Twitter@John_Kass