Sunday, September 28, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Review-Journal

BOOK EXCERPT: JOHN L. SMITH: 'OF RATS AND MEN': Citizen Goodman

Mob lawyer thrived on mayoral candidacy in bid for office that wasn't obvious at the time

Oscar Goodman said he felt a little like Lou Gehrig, the luckiest man on the face of the Earth, on election night June 8, 1999. REVIEW-JOURNAL FILES "Of Rats and Men" By John L. Smith Huntington Press Paperback, $25.95 Las Vegas City Councilman Arnie Adamsen, above at right, was quickly eclipsed by Goodman's fiery rhetoric and independent persona. The political insider's best effort didn't dent Goodman's popularity or eventual margin of victory. REVIEW-JOURNAL FILES At home, Goodman spends his spare time drinking gin and watching ballgames. REVIEW-JOURNAL FILES As a youth in Philadelphia, Goodman enjoyed the theater and entertained thoughts of becoming an actor. Who would have believed back then he'd land the role of his life as mayor of Las Vegas? REVIEW-JOURNAL FILES

Today we are presenting a second installment of excerpts from Review-Journal columnist John L. Smith's new book "Of Rats and Men: Oscar Goodman's Life from Mob Mouthpiece to Mayor of Las Vegas," which is being published by Huntington Press and goes on sale next month. The book takes the reader through Goodman's 35-year career as the country's pre-eminent defense attorney for gangsters such as Meyer Lansky, Anthony Spilotro, Frank Rosenthal, Jimmy Chagra and Phil Leonetti, and then recounts how he pulled off a most unlikely career change by getting himself twice elected mayor of Las Vegas, the self-described "happiest mayor in America."

Although no one who understood the Machiavellian history of organized crime would easily believe it, the seeds of Oscar Goodman's 1999 mayoral candidacy were not sewn in the backroom of some smoke-filled mob social club, but in the hallowed halls of Haverford College when he made an unsuccessful run for student-government president.

Goodman's overwhelming need to perform before an audience began surfacing early in his life, in activities ranging from school plays to second-string football, then manifested later in his entourage of hangers-on as an undergrad and even in keeping some law partners at his side, in part, to provide a laugh track for his sarcastic wit. Those who've watched him perform before juries will agree that Oscar the lawyer is at his best when thinking on his feet with his client's freedom on the line. Watch him tear into a hostile witness on cross-examination and you can almost feel the heat of the footlights as he commands the stage.

Over the years, he'd toyed with the notion of running for public office. There was talk of a judgeship appointment during the mid-1970s when Mike O'Callaghan was governor, thoughts of a run for lieutenant governor, even an earlier aborted mayoral run. But local political wisdom dictated that the public would never really trust the candidacy of a nationally recognized Mafia mouthpiece. Goodman had been photographed more times with Spilotro than Tony had been with his own kids.

"Plenty of name recognition, but plenty of negatives," Las Vegas political consultant Don Williams told him. "Too much baggage."

Baggage? Goodman had enough political baggage to keep a battalion of bellhops hustling for a year. There was the ghost of Tony. There were the names of hundreds of wiseguys Goodman had stood up for over the previous 30 years. This was the man who'd declared to reporters that he would rather have his daughter date Spilotro than an FBI agent, that as far as he knew his clients were upstanding citizens, that the Mafia didn't exist, that drug trafficker Jimmy Chagra wasn't responsible for the murder of a federal judge, that the murderous Phil Leonetti was the victim of a law-enforcement vendetta, that marijuana and prostitution should be decriminalized, and so on. This was the man who played himself in "Casino." It was easy to presume that this was a man with a vulnerable background.

But Goodman also had a formidable intellect and genuine charisma, the kind cookie-cutter candidates couldn't obtain from even the priciest political image maker. He was also a favorite of local reporters, a veritable quote machine who'd chronicled his career in many hundreds of newspaper stories and TV segments.

Oscar Goodman had negatives, but he appeared to have few secrets. His flaws and friends were well-documented and many locals considered him a fascinating character. Even Nevada's premier political consultant, Billy Vassiliadis of R&R Partners, would admit as much. "He's an interesting guy," Vassiliadis commented with considerable understatement. "With his trial experience, he's a great speaker. He's media savvy and he's colorful. I think he can capture some people's imagination. Remember, `Jesse the Body/Mind' Ventura is governor of Minnesota."

Not that Vassiliadis was endorsing Goodman's candidacy. Few members of Nevada's political machine were willing to come within a mile of the man. It's not that they thought he lacked the ability to do the job. A circus chimp could handle the traditional ribbon-cutting and City Council-leading duties of a part-time job that paid $45,000 a year. It was Spilotro's ghost that gave them pause.

"I think Carolyn Goodman would make a great mayor, but not Oscar," political consultant and former presidential adviser Sig Rogich said.

As ever, Goodman first discussed the possibility of his run with his wife, Carolyn, who'd seen him chafe at the confines of his law practice.

"Oscar had been disenchanted with the criminal practice for probably 12 to 15 years," Carolyn recalled. "He kept asking me, `What do you think?' and I said, `Why don't you teach at a law school? Why don't you write a book? Why don't you paint? Why don't you do a lecture series? Why don't you run for office?' And the answers were always `No.' But running for office tweaked him a little bit."

He also met with his children, all of whom by then had graduated college and were beginning their professional careers. They were concerned their father would be vilified by the press and those who would connect him with his unsavory clients.

"But when he decided that it was something he needed to do, we immediately supported him. We just didn't want him to get hurt," Cara Goodman said.

Name recognition

In the interim, Goodman had piggybacked on a Mason-Dixon public-opinion poll that measured positive and negative name recognition for prospective mayoral candidates, including former City Councilman Steve Miller, former County Commissioner Jay Bingham, City Councilman Arnie Adamsen, developer Mark Fine, and lawyer Oscar Goodman.

Goodman's high name recognition rivaled political gadfly Miller's. Goodman's negatives were also high, but the poll showed that many of those who knew his name approved of him. The numbers were far from perfect, but they indicated that he had a fair chance.

Ironically, Goodman, who seemed acquainted across America with everyone in organized crime at least on a professional level, knew few members of Southern Nevada's political-consultant Mafia. Besides, with the exception of Don Williams, a gun-slinging individualist, the establishment's political fixers were already lining up on the side of the safe candidates, Bingham and Adamsen. Goodman needed someone to turn to and Tom Letizia fit the bill. Though he wasn't really in the campaign-running racket -- he sold advertisements and did voice-overs for commercials for a living -- he was competent and loyal. Goodman contacted him to hash out the possibilities.

With the close of filing for the office set for the end of the business day on March 4, 1999, Goodman was running out of wiggle room. After soliciting further opinions of family and friends and even querying a few reporters, he returned to his strength, Carolyn.

"He really didn't make up his mind to run until the last minute," she recalled. "When I left him in the morning I said, `What are you going to do?' And he said, `I don't know. I'll let you know by quarter of 3. You have to come.' And sure enough, at 2:30 he said, `I'm running. Get on down here.' "

Letizia scrambled to put together a press conference at Goodman's Fourth Street law office, known to some reporters as the House the Mob Built. Reporters who'd watched him in the courtroom and holding forth before banks of television cameras had never seen him so nervous. His hands visibly shook and at times his voice trembled. He was dressed impeccably, a little too swell for a local politician, in a dark blue Brioni suit and his trademark custom cowboy boots. Two dozen well-wishers were joined by almost as many television and print reporters. With Carolyn and Ross Goodman standing by, along with Rabbi Philip Goodman and peripatetic law partner David Chesnoff, Goodman announced a candidacy that had been rumored for weeks. He seemed to be the last person to know he was running for office.

On unfamiliar ground, he wasn't quite sure how to comport himself. His talk sounded more like a classic Goodman closing argument growl than the launch of a campaign to represent a city as its mayor. He sounded more angry than excited.

Goodman seemed surprised when reporters started asking questions about himself rather than one of his notorious clients. It was a defensive feeling he'd often fight in the coming weeks. The first of what would be hundreds of questions about his representation of mobsters was fired at him; he managed to field them without pointing fingers or accusing anyone of being a government rat.

"If Mr. Spilotro did anything wrong, shame on the prosecutors for not being able to convict him," Goodman said, applying his personalized sense of logic.

Then he said something that was guaranteed to send shivers down the spines of his opponents.

"I'm gonna spend whatever it takes and I have plenty of people ready to help me -- 200,000, 500,000, 2 million -- whatever it takes."

As Vinny Montalto recalled, "After Tony died, Oscar lost a lot of interest in what he was doing. He still worked hard, but most of the people he'd represented were in jail or dead. He moved a lot of cases to David Chesnoff and Marty Keach, who made a lot of money thanks to Oscar. That's why I think he got so interested in the idea of running for office. From one day to the next he was and then he wasn't running. He collected a few promises from people with money around town and then made his decision. It was the first time in a long time I'd seen that spark in his eyes."

In truth, Goodman had locked up few commitments beyond those in his personal circle of allies in the legal community. But he possessed two things his opponents could not match: a personal wealth estimated at more than $10 million and a wicked -- possibly unhealthy -- competitive streak. If he was jumping into the race, he was doing so to win.

One challenge Goodman overcame when he decided to run for office was a mild case of germ phobia. In recent years, he avoided shaking hands with some people, but once he decided to file for the mayor's job, the feelings of unease disappeared.

Informed of Goodman's entry into the race, a somewhat smug front-runner Arnie Adamsen said, "You've got to be kidding me. This is great. I love it. The more the merrier."

Jay Bingham also attempted to take the news lightly, almost as if Goodman's candidacy was not something to be given serious thought: "The race will be interesting and lots of fun."

But the words rang hollow. Within days, Bingham announced that he was pulling out of the race due to a previously undiagnosed heart condition. His withdrawal fueled speculation that he was uninterested in challenging Goodman in a negative campaign that might have splashed mud on his own candidacy.

For all his public appearances, speeches, and rallies, none of his former clients approached him to inadvertently create a devastating photo opportunity for an opponent. The street guys wished him well, but stayed away.

"It's something I'm actually proud of," Goodman said. "There were no meetings. I never sent Joey Cusumano or Big Chris Richichi or Charlie Panarella a message. They knew how important this was for me and they stayed away out of respect. And I wasn't about to shun them, either. These are people I know and like. They're my clients, but they're also people I enjoy talking to. I've never shied away from friends, but they knew that being seen with me would be misinterpreted by the press and seized upon by my political opponents. So they stayed away. That's the kind of guys they are."

`Anybody but Oscar'

The mayor's race in Las Vegas is officially a nonpartisan affair, which was probably good for Goodman considering the fact he'd changed his party years earlier from Republican to Democrat, but had never been active in a campaign.

While the press was getting used to the idea of his candidacy, Goodman was busy spending 14-hour days campaigning. If politics was a popularity contest, then Goodman's boyish longing to be liked by everyone would serve him well. He worked from a lengthy daily schedule full of the usual speeches before senior-citizen groups and women's organizations, then improvised with unannounced appearances outside the front door of the Costco and Wal-Mart stores. What he knew about political strategy could fit on a matchbook, but he made a promise to himself that no one in the race would work harder. More than anything else, in the coming weeks Goodman would outwork his opponents, sprinting from one political function to the next, then collapsing at the end of the day with a pitcher of Beefeater.

Campaign adviser Jim Ferrence was won over by Goodman's energy and ability to grasp issues and political nuances quickly. Mark Fierro's visual conceptions helped to produce smooth effective spots and Letizia ran the office and handled the fund-raising sprint, but it was Ferrence who balanced the other two, managed the sign placement, coordinated the grass-roots campaigning and get-out-the-vote effort, and attempted to craft a winning strategy for Goodman. Ferrence, the campaign's manager, rapidly learned that his candidate defied the usual political convention.

"I think his lack of political sophistication ended up helping him," Ferrence said. "My political instincts were always contrary to his, and he always turned out to be right. My instincts told me he should distance himself from all the mob stuff and from the start he wrapped his arms around it and hid nothing. And he was right to do that. He has a better understanding of people than I do."

Goodman's political honeymoon didn't last long.

On March 9, the Review-Journal blistered Goodman with an editorial headlined, "Anybody but Oscar." With only the hand-wringing warnings of the development community and Chamber of Commerce and a file full of clippings of the Mob Mouthpiece to go on, the scorching editorial did what many effective newspaper opinions do: Namely, turned its subject into a caricature in order to prove a point.

Goodman was credited for his legal skills and University of Pennsylvania education, but was lambasted as precisely the wrong man for the job, boasting that he was a "barrister to butchers" who "carries so much baggage he could be Sky Cap of the Century at McCarran International Airport."

Infuriated by the head-on attack, Goodman responded with a March 21 essay titled, "Newspaper Was Badly Mistaken: I Am Not My Clients."

"The Constitution guarantees our rights, but those constitutional rights are written on a piece of paper. They do not mean a single thing unless there is someone to enforce them for regular people. That is where I come in."

Goodman fed off the newspaper editorial the rest of his campaign and beyond, reminding himself of its approximately 200 words over and over again. Not good enough? Barrister to butchers? He'd see who had the last laugh.

Said one longtime political observer, "Obviously, that editorial got under Oscar's skin. It became his rallying cry."

Las Vegas oddsmaker Jackie Dell made Goodman a 17-to-1 underdog.

Goodman obviously wasn't intimidated by the long odds or the fact that such mainstream institutions as the Greater Las Vegas Chamber of Commerce had already cast their lot with Adamsen. He attempted to win over the chamber during a meeting.

"He used his wit to disarm his opponents," Fierro said. "The only tough meeting we ever took was with the chamber. When he spoke the room went absolutely quiet. You could have heard a pin drop, and at one point he looked at everyone at every table and said, `Oh, now I'm not so nervous. I know every single one of you. I've done work for some of your families.' It was very effective and personal. As he was leaving, he greeted Claudine Williams, the casino industry legend, and shook her hand, getting tangled in the enormous diamond ring she wears. He said, `I'm sorry. I was trying to slip it off your finger.' Everyone busted up. At that moment, you knew nobody was going to raise a finger to help Arnie. They saw Oscar's magic and how he worked people."

Goodman went Bugsy

The early days of the short campaign weren't all speeches and one-liners. Controversies, such as they were, presented themselves. Goodman's first town-hall meeting went reasonably well until a question from the audience, offered by former newspaper reporter-turned-federal-investigator Al Tobin, an Adamsen supporter, sent the candidate off his game: Goodman was running for mayor, but how many City Council meetings had he ever bothered to attend? (The answer: One in three decades of representing clients. He'd appeared on behalf of wife Carolyn for a Meadows School zoning matter.) If he'd attended only one council meeting, what made Goodman think he was prepared to be mayor?

As Tobin returned to his seat, Goodman went Bugsy.

"Don't walk away from me, Mr. Tobin. I'm talking to you!" Goodman roared.

Tobin later recalled, "I think he was expecting me to ask a softball question. When that didn't happen, his true nature came out during that diatribe."

It was one of the few times during the campaign Goodman was thrown off. In the early going, Adamsen and his campaign manager Lindsay Lewis, an experienced Washington fund-raiser who'd spent little time in Las Vegas, marginalized Goodman's chances. They clearly underestimated his appeal with common voters. Lewis refused to believe that the public, no matter how gullible or inured to the Las Vegas scene, would vote a notorious mob lawyer into the mayor's office.

"We need somebody who can hit the ground running," Adamsen propounded during the candidates' first debate March 18 before a group of developers and business owners. "I have something money can't buy: experience."

But he also lacked something no amount of money could buy: a colorful personality. Truth was, voters didn't want experience.

Goodman threw bombs and let fly one-liners. He jabbed Fine's role as a developer. He nipped at Adamsen by criticizing the state of affairs downtown.

Goodman hammered the rhetorical themes he sensed would resonate with the public, including the unlikely prospect of bringing a professional sports franchise and stadium to the heart of Las Vegas. Forget that such thoughts were considered absurd by professional football insiders, and was sure to be crushed by opposition from the casino industry, which made millions from bookmaking on NFL games. Goodman had a dream that was bigger than filling neighborhood potholes and steady-as-she-goes mewling.

"Las Vegas is the entertainment capital of the world and unless downtown keeps up, it's going to be like the core of the apple rotting. ... If they don't like to hear that, screw 'em," Goodman blasted. "When people come to Las Vegas, they come to see glamor and glitz. I'm the man. I'm not going to be one of those (boring politicians). If they want one of them, they can have one and I'll go fishing."

The man was clearly dangerous and wasn't playing by the conventional rules of local politics.

While the other candidates attacked each other, Oscar Goodman kept running from meeting to meeting, at one point taking to horseback to meet and greet a group of equestrians at nearby Red Rock Canyon, a stunning sandstone monument and national conservation area that the mayoral candidate, in 36 years in Southern Nevada, had never before visited. He'd been too busy working for clients who, ironically, were known to use the Red Rock area as a graveyard.

As the May 4 primary approached, the opposition sputtered.

Although Adamsen's man Lindsay Lewis remained confident that Goodman would eventually scare away voters, as an outsider to Southern Nevada he still didn't understand that most locals were neither offended nor frightened by the mob mystique. The rhetoric of the Chamber of Commerce and a few sensitive casino bosses aside, it was what separated Las Vegas from most other communities. And many new residents were obviously enamored of Goodman's personality, shadowy celebrity, and unabashed confidence.

"My concern is, where has he been for thirty-four years?" Fine argued. "We've worked to create an image as family and entertainment-friendly. He hasn't made a civic contribution to Las Vegas and then he wakes up one day and wants to be mayor."

Added Adamsen, "I think it would devastate our image we've taken decades to build."

The primary poll numbers continued to improve for Goodman. Adamsen mounted what his camp believed was an all-out assault on the mob lawyer who favored legalizing prostitution and marijuana and had defended all manner of thugs. The negative advertisements came complete with a haunting soundtrack and such statements as, "For the past thirty years, Oscar Goodman has made millions representing some of the worst drug dealers, mobsters and corrupt politicians. Now he wants to be mayor. But Oscar Goodman has no experience and takes the side of criminals against the victims of crime." There was also a segment from the irreverent "Closing Arguments" series, quoting Goodman ranting, "I'm trying to show the American public that our government is a bunch of stinkin' Nazis trying to break us in half."

The ads even quoted Goodman's 1995 statement to a newspaper reporter that he "would have been the world's worst mayor."

Oscar smokes 'em

On primary night, Goodman's headquarters bustled with well-wishers, most of them either lawyers or longtime locals. As the results started to come in, it was obvious Goodman would crush his opponents. The only question was, would he win the race outright by collecting 50 percent-plus-one of the vote?

Adamsen's crowded headquarters appeared stunned as the results returned showing him barely holding on as Goodman pressed the 50 percent mark. There was no drama. It was a rout. Goodman finished with 49.4 percent of the vote to Adamsen's 29 percent. Fine faded with 16 percent. The rest of the field garnered 6 percent.

Although Adamsen kept his Custer-like composure -- "We stopped the momentum and wiped the slate clean" -- he was scalped. With Goodman missing outright election by half a percentage point, Adamsen's campaign was dead. It began to smell the morning after the primary. Major contributions to his cause ceased. Adamsen failed to collect enough cash to air a single TV commercial after the primary. The Review-Journal attempted to soften the impact of the Goodman victory with an editorial titled, "City Hall Squeaker." But all Goodman had to do was keep from getting his picture taken with the ghost of Tony Spilotro to ensure victory.

Adamsen had a few short weeks to come up with dirt so devastating the public would be soured on a Goodman victory. But instead of digging deeper by hiring skilled researchers, his camp stuck with the oft-repeated sound bites about having a friend of mobsters on their hands. It made barely a dent in the public's perception of its new favorite candidate.

Questions were raised in the press, rather than by Adamsen's team of experts, about Goodman's personal finances and business partnerships. Goodman had spoken often and articulately about open government, but refused to reveal the names of his business partners until after the election. State law didn't require candidates to do so, only elected officials.

Meanwhile, national newspapers and magazines were having a feeding frenzy.

"Is Las Vegas Remarrying the Mob?" asked a San Francisco Chronicle editorial.

Offered Time magazine, "A Lawyer to Wise Guys Would Rule Sin City."

And The New York Times asked, "Will a city linked to the mob turn to a defense lawyer as mayor?"

But none of the scare tactics was sticking. The numbers were too strong. Oscar Goodman was leading a political parade in his honor.

Although continuing to soften its stance, the Review-Journal still jabbed at Goodman, calling the June 8 election a race that gave voters "two bad choices."

Goodman pummeled Adamsen, 64 percent to 36 percent. Adamsen was gracious, calling his own election night a celebration and wishing the mayor luck in public office, which he knew could be very unkind to even the most well-meaning of men. In his own words, Adamsen was making the transition from "Who's Who" to "Who's He?" He returned to private life, leaving his job at Stewart Title a short time after the election, turning to developing real estate in Southern Nevada.

"Las Vegas has sent a message to the rest of the world," Goodman told his campaign workers with television cameras lighting up the night outside his Third Street headquarters. The story of his election victory was on its way to circling the globe. "I'm going to paraphrase Lou Gehrig when he said, `Today I consider myself the luckiest man in the world.' "

Privately, soon-to-be Mayor Goodman was in his element.

"He was so light on his feet," Fierro said. "He loved running, maybe more than he loves being mayor. After he won that night he turned to me and said, `What did you get me into?' He embraced the race. He savored it every single day. He was made to be a candidate, he really was. He works differently than most people. He derives energy from meeting people."

Goodman immediately put his lucrative law practice on hold, taking a huge cut in pay. But for the moment, the new mayor and his team of underdogs were on top of the world.

Congratulations, mayor

Not long after the election, Oscar Goodman sat behind his desk at his law office when a secretary rang his phone. An old friend was calling to congratulate him. It was longtime client, reputed West Side heroin kingpin Manny Baker.

Baker had pulled up stakes after a final latest brush with infamy and relocated to Texas, where he kept a ranch near the Mexican border. Goodman and David Chesnoff had doubtlessly saved Baker from a long stretch in the penitentiary, and a rise in violence in the local drug scene, along with some medical ailments, had persuaded Baker to retire.

Baker graciously heaped praise on Goodman. The two exchanged pleasantries.

Moments later, the office phone rang again. It was another call of congratulations for the newly elected mayor of Las Vegas, this time from President Clinton.

"At first I thought it was a joke," Goodman recalled. "Manny Baker one minute and Bill Clinton the next. Now that's casting a wide net."

Only in the crazy life of Oscar Goodman did so many worlds brush so closely together.

In his first year in office, with a few exceptions, Goodman enjoyed the standard press honeymoon given a new mayor. For the moment, even the Review-Journal's recalcitrant editorials grew warmer and fuzzier as he embarked on his quest to revitalize downtown and show the city and the world that Las Vegas voters hadn't made the biggest mistake of their lives.

He'd learned how to attract attention by the time he'd turned 10 years old. He'd mastered the art of the candidacy in a few short weeks. But learning to govern from the odd and overrated political perch of the mayor's seat would take time.

Somehow, no matter how inflammatory his rhetoric, Goodman's popularity with the voting public continued to climb. By the fall of 2002, some surveys measured his approval rating as high as 90 percent.

Ironically, after so many years of playing the role of the snarling, pugnacious, criminal mouthpiece, Goodman thrived in his new role as the consummate defender of and ace public-relations man for Las Vegas.

"I think I've given Las Vegas an awful lot of publicity, and of course I love the adulation," Goodman said. "I've said it from the first day I took office that Las Vegas must not forget its roots. It's not simply for reasons of nostalgia or because people think the mayor has a thing about the mob, but because it's what gives us our mystique. It's what separates us from all the other cities that have gambling. It's what differentiates us from everyone else. It's a rich history. These are romantic characters, fascinating and intriguing characters."

The mouthpiece-turned- mayor not least.

As Goodman piled up the press, generating feature stories in every major newspaper in America and several in Europe and Asia and appearing on an eclectic array of television programs such as "Crossfire" with his new pal James Carville, "Money Line" with Lou Dobbs, and the Discovery and Travel channels, he appeared to be receiving all the adulation, as his wife would put it, that a man could want.

And still, on some slow Saturday mornings when there wasn't a seniors group to address, a parade to lead, or a ribbon to cut, he would lace up his sneakers and go to the local Costco discount store, browse for a few nonessential items, and introduce himself to shoppers and clerks, most of whom already recognized him and greeted him with "Hey, Oscar" and "How's it going, mayor?"

It was going fine. The life of the overachieving Jewish kid from West Philadelphia, who'd lived so long so close to organized-crime infamy, had never been better. He had a beautiful intelligent wife who loved him, four successful children who adored him, all