on ’t call me boss

avid L. awrence

Pittsburgh’s Renaissance Mayor

Michael P. Weber


76 <1 Don’t call me boss

Ioe McArdle in 1949 to fill the labor seat; Dave Olbum replaced Abra-
ham Wolk in the Iewish seat; and David Craig was selected to fill
a WASP vacancy. Councilmen called Lawrence's practice the ”Bal—
kan succession.”

Even more important than party balance was party loyalty. Can-
didates or party oflicials might disagree in the privacy of the caucus,
but they were expected to support the party wholeheartedly once the
decision had been rendered. Those who, like Councilman Ioe Mc-
Ardle, refused to comply with this unwritten rule lost valuable party
endorsement and support. With the weight of the party turned against
them, they stood virtually no chance for reelection and ultimately
disappeared from the political scene. That this expulsion was seldom
used testifies to its power in effecting party discipline. The mere threat
was usually enough to hold all but the most stubborn members firmly
in line.

As this analysis of the party organization under Lawrence sug-
gests, the structure permitted a rapid and effective communication
flow from the city's streets to the Benedum-Trees Building and back.
It would not have been nearly so effective, however, had it not been
for the personal touch and guidance of the man at its head. David
Lawrence carefully watched over the party as if it were his most prized
possession. Unlike his later practice in governmental life, in which
the details of day-to-day operations bored him, he administered every
facet of the party. Every phase of political life warranted his time and
efforts.

The Lawrence style of operating the majority party began to
emerge shortly after McNair’s election in 1933. It was to become a
very personal machine in which party regulars owed loyalty at least
as much to him as to the Democratic party. No doubt because of his
experiences during the 19203, in which he was forced to maintain
constant contact with his troops in the field lest they be tempted to
join the Republican majority, Lawrence established direct links with
nearly all party regulars in the city and county. Each was made to
feel vital to the noble cause of electing Democrats.

Ward leaders were given open access to the chairman regardless
of his current governmental position. During the early years, when
Lawrence's position as secretary of the Commonwealth forced him
to reside in Harrisburg, he caught the early train to Pittsburgh each
Friday afternoon. On Saturday he arrived at party headquarters shortly
after 10 A.M. and usually remained there until after 6 P.M. During the
first hour or two, he and his close aides attended to party business
requiring immediate action. But after noon, the door to his office was

Building an Organization l> 77

opened to any ward chairman who felt in need of his assistance. Iobs,
welfare assistance, help in cutting red tape, or simply reassurance of
the ward chairman's worth to the party were dispensed throughout
the afternoon. He frequently responded with direct action. For ex-
ample, when a ward leader sought an assistant district attorney's posi-
tion for a young lawyer in his district, Lawrence called the district
attorney. ”I got a nice young man here, he's Irish, good name, good
looking, I'm going to send him over to see you/'24 The man got the
job. In other instances he requested property reassessment, debris re-
moval, restoration of public assistance, and back pay for a worker in-
jured on a city job. In each case the ward chairman could return to
his ward demonstrating his own effectiveness in delivering needed
services. His allegiance to and dependence upon the party chairman,
in turn, was strengthened by the process. While Lawrence seldom en-
gaged in small talk with his ward chainnen, he took the time to learn
the names of their wives and children and frequently asked specific
questions about them. He asked the chairmen’s opinions on political
candidates, fund-raising, or political strategy. As long as they per-
formed to expectations, they were permitted to operate their wards
without interference. He seldom praised them, but he made them
aware of their importance to the party. The cordial but efficient meet-
ings always ended in the same way, with Lawrence clapping his hands
sharply or rapping his large ring on the desk to signal that the business
had concluded.

On Sunday mornings Lawrence attended ten o'clock Mass at St.
Mary's at the Point. Following the collection, at which he always par-
ticipated as an usher, he held court in the back of the church, talking
briefly with those seeking favors. He returned to party headquarters
after Mass and repeated the process of the previous day. On slow days
his pinochle cronies would be summoned, if they were not already
there. When Lawrence became mayor, weekends continued to be re-
served for political business, although ward chairmen had virtually
unlimited access to him during the week at city hall as well. In 19 59,
when he became governor and moved back to Harrisburg, the earlier
weekend operations at party headquarters became customary again.

Lawrence also used the formal meeting to maintain contact with
his important ward chairmen and to keep them active in party affairs
year-round. Several times per year luncheons or dinners were held
in honor of prominent Democrats such as Roosevelt or Iefferson. Ward
chairmen were always expected to attend, and Lawrence made it a
point to speak to each one during the course of the evening. Later,
as he became more influential in national and international circles,

78 <1 Don’t call me boss

prominent figures were invited to the city to speak to and meet these
crucial cogs in the Democratic machine. Those who spoke to the Al-
legheny County Democratic group at one time or another included,
Senators Lyndon Iohnson, Estes Kefauver, and Adlai Stevenson, Mayor
Willy Brandt of West Berlin, Prime Minister David Ben Gurion of Is-
rael, and numerous governors and mayors. ”T he luncheons educated
us about the affairs of the day, but more importantly they enabled
us to rub shoulders with some of the most important people in the
world. It made us all feel good about what we were doing.” said Knox.25

Lawrence also reached out to party workers by attending as many
of the numerous rallies in the city and county as possible, speaking
briefly and urging those in attendance to increase their efforts on be-
half of the party candidates. If there were three meetings on the same
evening, he would try to arrange his appearances so that the meeting
with the social came last, and it was here that he was at his best.
While free beer and sandwiches were served and an orchestra played,
Lawrence would go around and talk to party officials and voters. This
personal touch, aided by his excellent memory, did much to keep the
party close knit.26

Even when he was out of town, Lawrence kept a close watch over
the activities of the political wards: Iimmy Kirk, Huck Fenrich, Frank
Ambrose, and others reported to him by mail and telephone. Loose
ends were seldom left dangling beyond the weekend meetings at head-
quarters. On serious matters he could always be counted on to re-
turn home to resolve the issue. During his European vacations, which
became more numerous as he grew older, he remained in touch, and
on at least one occasion he rushed home to resolve a brewing politi-
cal crisis. But the care he lavished on the party was almost never
viewed as heavy-handed by party regulars. He generally maintained
a light touch, preferring to let the principals in any dispute resolve
it themselves. A stern warning was usually issued to ”get the matter
solved.” Lawrence became involved himself only when the problem,
in his opinion, threatened the welfare of the party.

In disputes involving himself he learned, following several near
critical intraparty skirmishes, to choose his battles carefully. Only
when he was certain of victory without irreparable harm to the party
would he confront a Democratic opponent. In other instances, his pa-
tience in tolerating malcontents seems to have been almost limitless.

Like the Irish politician of the nineteenth century, he also main-
tained contact with his loyal workers through their families. ”Visit
the sick, and bury the dead,” he frequently advised his aide Fenrich,
and he lived up to his motto. Frank ”Bangy” Ambrose examined the

Building an Organization I> 79

death notices daily and informed his boss of the death of any Demo-
cratic worker, and they attended many wakes and funerals together.
Lawrence returned from Harrisburg, for example, for the funeral of
Iimmy Bates, a loyal Democrat who controlled a district in the black
Third Ward, in the Hill District. ”People . . . couldn't get over the fact
that the governor was there to pay his respects.” At another funeral,
that of Viola Turner, a committeewoman in the same ward, the
preacher invited Lawrence to say a few words in church. ”So he spoke
for fifteen or twenty minutes about Viola Turner, . . . and there were
hallelujahs, hallelujahs/'27 He was particularly solicitous of ward
chairmen, whom he considered the backbone of the party. He went
to their homes, both on family occasions and when they had troubles.
”T hat was his religion and politics/'23 By his ability to deliver jobs
and favors, Lawrence gained the active participation of thousands of
party workers. By visiting the wards, whether to take part in a local
rally, attend a wake, or visit a regular’s sickbed, he earned their un-
questioned loyalty. His ability to scold an errant worker at the proper
time also earned their obedience.

Not all meetings at party headquarters were the result of ward
chairmen appearing to petition for favors. Chairmen whose perfor-
mance fell short of the expected level were called in to explain. (He
didn't call them in if they did a good job.) It was on these occasions
that Lawrence's well-known temper would boil over. When, for ex-
ample, figures showed 68 Democrats to 23 Republicans newly regis-
tered to vote in one ward as compared to 310 to 29 and 240 to 16 in
two others, he called in the chairman of the first ward and demanded
an explanation. On being told that it had rained all day, Lawrence
put the figures in the ward chairman's hand and shouted, ‘How the
hell do you think the weather was on the North Side? Now get the
hell out of here and get to work/'29

On another occasion a district committeeman, who had sent
Lawrence a barely legible announcement, was called in. When he ex-
plained that the copy machine wasn't working properly, Lawrence
replied, nearly shouting, ”I didn't ask you if there was anything wrong
with the copy machine. . . . Don't you ever send me a thing like this
again. First of all, you can't read it. Second, it makes no sense. I'm
near blind in one eye and I don't want to lose the other one/'30 He
then dismissed the man with the customary hand clap.

The threat of party expulsion, while used infrequently, was al-
ways present and usually served to keep would-be mavericks or shirk-
ers in line. Inability to perform to expectations, however, was sel-
dom cause for dismissal. Throughout his career, Lawrence found it

80 <1 Don’t call me boss

difficult to dismiss a worker, whether employed by the city or asso-
ciated with the party.“ Thus only in cases of real or perceived dis-
loyalty were individuals actually removed from the party. Only one
city councilman, Ioseph P. McArdle, Iohn Huston, register of wills,
four ward chairmen, and a small number of district committee mem-
bers were removed during Lawrence's forty-six-year tenure as its head.
When a decision was made to remove someone, as in the Ioseph Mc-
Ardle case, it was done efficiently and without fanfare. The party's
executive committee quietly armounced that it would support an-
other candidate in the primary. Funds and workers formerly at the
disposal of the errant worker were transferred to the newly endorsed
candidate. The Democratic voters at the primary election completed
the surgery.

Lawrence's policy of maintaining an open door to ward chairmen
did not extend to the district committeemen or residents. They were
expected to operate through their chairmen, and this chain of com-
mand was strictly observed at all times. When he became mayor, he
maintained the same policy. Unlike Richard Daley, for example, who
customarily held court with citizens of Chicago each day in his of-
fice, Lawrence seldom met with private individuals or even small
groups at city hall.”

The formal structure of the organization reflected Lawrence's
desire for regularity and tidiness. His somewhat formal nature pre-
vented him from engaging in the charismatic interchanges often as-
sociated with urban political bosses such as Boston's colorful Iames
Curley or New York's ”Little Flower,” Fiorello H. La Guardia. An aver-
age speaker in his early years, he attended a public speaking class
sometime in the 1930s and gradually became more than accomplished.
”You could always tell when Lawrence learned a new word. He'd use
it over and over again . . . One word in particular was sanguine. . . .
Lawrence used it for months. . . . ’I’m not sanguine about this.’ ’I’m
not sanguine about that.’ ” "He could read a speech better than any-
body I ever knew. . . . If it came to a place where a little table pound-
ing would help, he could do that very effectively.” He later became
polished at presenting a formal address on radio or television, but
he never became comfortable with the glad-handing, back-slapping
style of modern politics. His 19 58 campaign for governor was particu-
larly distasteful to him because of its informal style of the hurried
address delivered from the top of a station wagon or the back of a
truck. Heckling from the audience often unnerved him, and he re-
fused to answer back. La Guardia’s style of ”mixing it up” with the
audience—”I can out-demagogue the best of the demagogues”—was

Building an Organization l> 81

not for Lawrence. He dealt with issues and facts and remained a com-
fortable distance from the crowd even when pressing the flesh.-33

Lawrence's formal approach, surprisingly, never hampered his
ability to develop a strong emotional bond with the city's electorate.
His masculine, no-nonsense style seemed to capture the spirit of the
city, and he consciously exploited the relationship. A workingman’s
political leader in a workingman’s town, he appeared able to tackle
the eight-hour shift at the open hearth, at the glassworks, or at Iron
City Brewery. To the old Irish and German residents he was ”their
boy”—one who was the epitome of the self-made man. When he be-
came mayor, citizens referred to him as Davey, signifying their in-
timate relationship with him. His aides and close associates, how-
ever, and even news reporters, always addressed him by his formal
title.34

The sport-consciousness of the blue-collar city matched Law-
rence's own love for physical contests, and he benefited from the par-
allel interests. In a city that idolized twice-defeated heavyweight con-
tender Billy Conn, turned out over a million fans to see the hapless
Pittsburgh Pirates of the 19503, and supported the even less success-
ful Pittsburgh Steelers, Lawrence and his friend Art Rooney were the
area's greatest fans. He was seen and photographed at many sporting
events and frequently in the company of athletic greats such as Conn,
boxer Fritzie Zivic, and baseball star Ralph Kiner. He threw out the
first ball at nearly every Pirate opener during the 1950s and early 1960s
and could frequently be seen sitting in box 209 at Forbes Field. He
would often attend Little League, sandlot, or high school games on
the North Side, in East Liberty, on Polish Hill, or at the Arsenal Field
in Lawrenceville.

His visits to the local games were no doubt calculated to keep
him in the public eye, as he seldom did anything for pleasure alone.
But it is equally clear that he enjoyed the games, and his natural love
of organized sports mirrored the overwhelming interests of a large
majority of the city's population. Nearly a thousand guests attended
a testimonial dinner in 1957 naming him Pittsburgh's Sportsman of
the Year. The honor, greeted with overwhelming enthusiasm by the
city's sportswriters, seemed to strengthen the bond between the po-
litical leader and the electorate.35

To be sure, Lawrence clearly recognized the value of good public
relations and took measures to cultivate the image of an active, con-
cerned leader. Beginning with his inauguration as mayor in 194 5, he
willingly appeared almost daily at ribbon-cutting and other dedica-
tion ceremonies, although he generally regarded them as a nuisance.

82 <1 Don't call me boss

Local party officials frequently shared in the publicity, but Lawrence
understood that the limelight had to shine brightest on the head of
the party. An aide to Mayor Ioe Barr, Morton Coleman, once violated
the principle by announcing to the press the establishment of the city's
Community Action Program for neighborhood development. Upon
hearing about it later, Lawrence, then governor, stemly admonished
Coleman, ”Young man, you only announce the bad news. You let the
mayor announce the good news/'36

In addition to being willing to appear at public events, Lawrence,
who had experienced firsthand the power of the press in the 1931 and
1933 elections, worked hard to enlist the cooperation of the city's corps
of political reporters. Iohn Iones, Gilbert Love, Iohn Townley, Ker-
mit McFarland, and others all enjoyed good relations with Lawrence.
His executive secretaries, Iohn Robin and later Walter Giesey, were
both former reporters with the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. Beginning
early in his first term as mayor, Lawrence hosted, at Robin's sugges-
tion, armual dinners with key newspaper reporters and executives and
his own associates at which ideas would be exchanged on urban re-
newal, industrial development, and other civic problems.

Lawrence's relationships with the press, of course, were not al-
ways cordial. John Jones once referred to him as ”boss Lawrence” in
an article in the Post-Gazette. Lawrence, who detested the term per-
haps more than any other, refused to see or speak with Iones for nearly
six months. Lawrence carried on a lasting feud with the Post-Gazette's
crusading reporter Ray Sprigle. Sprigle’s continued revelations regard-
ing corruption in the city police force launched a bitter relationship
between the two men that lasted nearly twenty years.37 With most
of the press, however, the honeymoon which began when Lawrence
inaugurated Pittsburgh's renowned Renaissance lasted for the remain-
der of his political career.

That Lawrence's friendly relationship with the press paid
dividends becomes obvious when one examines the political columns
and editorials during his term as mayor. Beginning with his second
term, all three of the city's news editors endorsed him for reelection
at every election. Reporters, moreover, joining in the spirit of team-
work being hailed as the key to the city's urban renewal efforts, sel-
dom criticized his policies or actions. Blame for problems in his ad-
ministration was usually laid at the door of the particular department
head involved. The chief, as he was sometimes called, usually escaped
unscathed.

The positive image of Lawrence as the caring and creative govem-
mental and political administrator, however, took some time to de-

Building an Organization [> 83

velop. During the early 1930s, even after the McNair and Roosevelt
victories, he was viewed by the public and many who later became
close allies as the typical urban political boss —trading favors and jobs
for votes and political influence, with little regard for the actual op-
eration of government or the welfare of the citizenry. Three key al-
lies and loyal supporters, Genevieve Blatt, Iohn Robin, and Alfred
Tronzo, all reported an initial negative reaction to Lawrence. Their
assessments were to a large extent correct. Lawrence, until he be-
came secretary of the Commonwealth in the Earle administration,
exhibited almost no concern for matters of government. Moreover,
it is difficult to detect any philosophical principles that guided his
actions. To be sure, he embraced the ideology of the Democratic party
and at times exhibited concern for the causes of organized labor, the
poor, and the politically weak. But his driving force seemed inex-
tricably linked to the excitement he derived from the electoral process.

Selecting a candidate, organizing and running a campaign, and
creating the party structure required for a successful venture stirred
the passion within him. In Lawrence's early campaigns, political is-
sues and governmental concerns remained secondary in importance
and were seldom debated. Personalities, analyzed in the simplest
terms, were highlighted: a candidate was honest or corrupt, capable
or foolish, selfish or concerned with the welfare of others. The qual-
ity of his ideas or his ideological position mattered only slightly and
his ability to embrace former lifelong Republicans during the elec-
tions of 1932 and to replace Democratic candidates with Republicans
in 1933 testifies to his willingness to ignore party labels and their
implied philosophical position. A candidate's potential ability to win
elections clearly assumed primary importance: appearance, ethnic
origin, religion, social class, and residential location all entered into
consideration. Political or social views could be ignored or mini-
mized. McNair’s unrelenting adherence to the single tax philosophy,
for example, posed no difficulty for Lawrence or other high-level
Democrats, although all had rejected it as foolish. The party chair-
man, instead, viewed it as a potential vote-getting position. Winning
elections was his utmost goal, one he retained throughout his politi-
cal career, and one that contributed to his myopia in selecting po-
litical candidates.

Following the two successful elections, Lawrence was faced with
the tasks of building a permanent party, administering patronage, and
distributing assistance to those in need. That the first two demands
worked hand-in-hand, of course, delighted him. Building the party
was the initial step toward winning another election and was thus

84 <1 Don’t call me boss

viewed as part of the election process. One built the party, in part,
by distributing patronage to able and loyal workers. William Mc-
Nair’s crucial sin, in Lawrence's eyes, as time went on, lay not in his
publicity-seeking antics or his almost ludicrous approach to govem-
ment, but in his deliberate interference in the control of the party
spoils—which was essential to establishing a lasting party.

Providing public assistance, similarly, while it gave vital aid to
the needy, also helped to solidify grass-roots support. The party was
only too happy to provide low-level blue-collar jobs to potential vot-
ers, although it never insisted upon a test of party loyalty as a condi-
tion of employment or public assistance to the truly needy. Grateful
workers, of course, who wished to shift political allegiance or to be-
come politically active on behalf of the Democratic party were given
every encouragement to do so.

Nearly all of Lawrence's energy during the 1920s and early 1930s
was directed toward winning elections and creating an effective, effi-
cient party. His approach was extremely pragmatic —”Whatever works
is acceptable.” However, even at this early date several important prin-
ciples begin to emerge. The corruption in the dominant Republican
regime and his own suspicion, inherited from his father, of ineptness
in urban government led him to begin to insist that political appoin-
tees be at least capable. The spoils system was accepted as standard
practice. But workers were also expected to perfonn the task for which
they were hired. Those found incompetent were to be transferred un-
til the proper job was found. Few were ever fired, but Lawrence re-
fused to tolerate a slovenly attitude toward work.33 Later, when he
became mayor, he frequently lectured workers on the virtues of punc-
tuality and an ”honest day's work.” He clearly expected others to adopt
the work ethic that drove him. Nevertheless, the actual operation
of the various departments, of course, never ran as cleanly as he ex-
pected. Department heads, reluctant to run afoul of ward chairmen,
seldom dismissed anyone, and while the degree of job-shirking is im-
possible to document, various departments within the city no doubt
contained as many incompetent workers as other large urban govem-
ments. As mayor, Lawrence freed certain departments and the inde-
pendent authorities involved in the rebuilding of the city from the
patronage system to ensure that their directors could carry out their
duties without political interference.

Finally, it was at about this time that Lawrence began to use the
saying that was to become permanently associated with him, ”T he
best politics is good government.” Nearly every aide interviewed com-
mented on the frequency with which he uttered the phrase. Lawrence

Building an Organization l> 85

had viewed firsthand the negative results of incompetent, corrupt gov-
ernment, and his pragmatic attitude to the political realities around
him dictated a new approach. Good govemment—defined by him as
efficient, caring, and relatively honest —would result in political suc-
cess. ”He was never a reformer in the nineteenth—century sense. He
never worried greatly if anybody in the Police Department or the
Democratic organization had made arrangements with anyone who
would contribute to their welfare. There was no corruption, however,
in anything that was ever done in the city government as a govem-
ment. . . . There was never any shakedown of contractors or of re-
developers, or others, which is really common in New York, Chicago,
or Philadelphia/'39

The actual operation of good government for the time being, how-
ever, would be left in the hands of others. Lawrence, following the
election of William McNair as mayor of Pittsburgh, turned to larger
political battlefields. The county had not yet been conquered by the
Democrats, and the state of Pennsylvania represented the biggest po-
litical challenge of all. He planned to leave the day-to-day manage-
ment of the city in the hands of his new mayor and several close aides,
including Iimmy Kirk, whom he left behind to ”mind the store.” For
Dave Lawrence, at this stage in his career, a behind-the-scenes role
was enough to satisfy his ambition. Unforeseen events in the next
two years would force a dramatic change in his intentions.

Contents

Preface

Biographical Sketches

Growing Up: An Education in Politics
Friends, Family, and Work 1919-1929
Crumbs No More 1929-1934
Building an Organization

Expanding the Network 1934-1935
Exercising Power: A Little New Deal and a Ripper 1935-1938
The Empire Crumbles 1938-1940

Years of Trauma 194o—1942

Policies, Principles, and Procedures

The Interlude 1942-1945

A City in Trouble 1940-1945

From Political Boss to Civic Statesman 1945-1946
Creating a Renaissance: The Environment 1946-1950
Creating a Renaissance: Bricks and Mortar 1946-1959
Social Concerns and Other Matters 1946-1959

A Bit of Tamish: Graft and Corruption 1946-1959

Politics as Usual 1946-1959

Return to Harrisburg 1959-1963

In Service to the Nation 1963-1966

Epilogue

Appendix A. Pittsburgh Renewal Projects

Appendix B. David L. Lawrence: Significant Dates

Notes

Index

1889-1919

Xi
xvii

22
37

86
106
128
145
16 5
I79
I97

208
228
255
277
293
315
339
368
388
395
398
399
429

l 9 3 4 — 1 93 5
Expanding the Network

In late 1933, Dave Lawrence and Ioseph Guffey had reason to sus-
pect that the mayor-elect, William McNair, would not be a coopera-
tive member of the new Democratic team, but in the heat of the elec-
tion they chose to ignore the warnings issued by McNair himself.
Shortly after wir1r1ing the Democratic primary, McNair told a reporter,
”You know, I made an agreement with Davey that I'd let the Demo-
cratic party handle all the patronage if I was elected. But if I'm elected,
who'll be the Democratic party? As mayor of Pittsburgh I'll be the
most important Democratic office holder in Pennsylvania and I'll be
the Democratic party. How’ll Davey like that?” Apparently aware of
the risk of this new go—it-alone policy, McNair added prophetically,
”If I'm elected mayor, the big interests won't let me serve out my
term. They'll rip me out of office; they'll impeach me or throw me
in jail/'1

Lawrence's response, if any, is unknown, and both he and Gufley
rejoiced at the victory of their handpicked candidate. Immediately
after the election they whisked their protege off to Washington, D.C.,
to meet the president. The man who had campaigned as the ”Roose-
velt candidate for mayor” had the opportunity to meet his champion
face-to-face. The meeting was brief but cordial, with McNair giving
every indication that he would be a firm Roosevelt ally.

One week later, however, McNair began to signal that he might
be less cooperative than Gufiey and Lawrence hoped. In response to
a complaint about inadequate heating by an office worker, he called
for a ladder and began exploring the heating ducts in the city-county
building. The press photographers, alerted by the McNair staff, cap-
tured the incident of the mayor-elect crawling about the pipes for the

86 front pages of all three newspapers. When questioned by Lawrence

Expanding the Network [>

about his behavior, McN air refused to back down, and he offered a
vigorous defense that appeared on the front page of the Post-Gazette.
The Democratic leadership was making too much of the incident and
claiming that it made him look ridiculous. ”I wanted to see how they
heated the City-County building lobby and the only way to find out
was to get a ladder and get up there. What's wrong with that?” A fur-
ther comment was aimed directly at Lawrence's ”coat and tie policy.”
”In most of the cases I've observed, public officials try to be dignified
to cover up the lack of ability. A man who doesn't know the fundarnen-
tals of his job dresses himself all up and assumes what he thinks is
a dignified air and tries to fool the public.”

More significantly, although he accepted organization men Iames
P. Kirk and Cornelius D. Scully on his administrative staff, he gave
an indication that he intended to play an active role in appointments
to city jobs. Shortly after his election, he named a Lawrence critic,
Mrs. R. Templeton Smith, to the post of budget director. He also re-
fused to appoint Eddie Jones, his speech writer and the organization's
choice, as director of public safety, an important position in the dis-
tribution of patronage. Deliberately embarrassing the party leaders,
he announced that, instead, he would accept the recommendation
of a group of local clergy for the post. When they made known their
selection, however, he ignored it. The public safety director contro-
versy quickly became a morass of confusion when the mayor rejected
party benefactor Michael Benedum’s choice, Iames Malone, a former
Republican councilman, in favor of the Republican incumbent, Har-
mar Denny. Almost immediately he requested Denny's resignation
and offered the position to Lawrence's Democratic opponent Iohn M.
Henry. When Henry accepted, McNair withdrew the offer and called
for the appointment of Malone. When the city council refused to ap-
point Malone, McNair presented the name of Ralph Smith, whom
he admittedly had not consulted. Smith assumed the position, only
to be fired a short time later by the unpredictable McNair. The oFfice
of public safety director remained the main political football through-
out the chaotic administration.3

Clearly, if Lawrence expected to play a quiet role in the back-
ground of the new administration, brokering power and jobs, McNair
had shattered that vision. During the first six months of 1934, Law-
rence watched McNair violate one after another of his principles.

The episode of the mayor and the heating system proved to be
just the beginning of his publicity-seeking antics. On election day,
2 Ianuary, he concluded a five-minute victory speech by inviting job
seekers to remain in the corridor of the City-County Building follow-

87

88 <1 Don't call me boss

ing the festivities, to present their petitions to him personally. The
following day he fulfilled an earlier pledge by placing his desk in the
lobby of the building to meet with the unemployed. Each day for a
week thousands of desperate job seekers jammed the building hop-
ing that the mayor could provide employment. ”No matter what you
happen to have on your mind, you are at complete liberty to lug it
to Mr. McNair’s office and unload it,” wrote a reporter sent to Pitts-
burgh to cover the new mayor's bizarre antics. ‘There is no guarantee
that Mr. McNair will do anything about it. To the contrary, it is wholly
likely that he will assure you he knows as little about it as you do
but that under the single-tax system, it wouldn't have happened/'4
It is unlikely that anyone received a job during these sessions—the
mayor retreated to his ofifice within a week —but for the whole of that
week, McNair was on the front pages of the city's newspapers.

When the publicity value of the ”lobby office” began to die, Mc-
Nair provided reporters with other stories that kept him on the front
pages. He tried to ”show the unemployed what could be done with
$500,” by erecting a small frame cottage on the sidewalk directly ad-
jacent to the county jail. When the building inspector informed him
that the city fire code prohibited erecting a structure in a fire zone,
McNair replaced him with a more willing inspector. At the mayor's
request, his pal, Harrison “Playboy” McCready, moved into the cot-
tage, which the press dubbed ”McNair Manor.” The building was even-
tually removed, but not before it added to the mayor's growing repu-
tation as the clown prince of city hall.

The mayor brought the city council into his act when he began
traveling about the city offering vacant city-owned lots, and $500 for
the erection of his cottage, to the unemployed. When dozens of des-
titute people arrived at city hall, they were informed that only the
city council could issue the deeds. The lots, however, heavily encum-
bered with deliquent taxes and unpaid mortgages, were unavailable.
Nor had the promised building funds been appropriated. When Coun-
cilmen john Kane and P. I. McArdle delivered a tongue-lashing to the
mayor, accusing him of deceiving the aged and poor, he responded
by announcing through the press that he ”guaranteed the plan would
work if council would enact appropriate measures/'5

McNair’s activities assumed farcical proportions when he pur-
chased a forty by four hundred foot tent to house the poor on the
grounds of the state hospital at Mayview. On another occasion he
named himself temporary magistrate and presided over the hearings
at the night court. The press, informed of his intentions, were not
disappointed. The mayor joked and clowned his way through each

Expanding the Network [> 89

evening, eventually dismissing charges against nearly all the defen-
dants after extracting a promise that they would raise vegetables on
land provided by the city.6

In addition to his publicity-seeking stunts, which grew stranger
each month, McN air continued to turn his back on the regular Demo-
cratic organization in favor of a formerly Republican group labeled
the ”silk stocking clique” by Kane. He chose as an advisor the sister
of R. Templeton Smith, and several members of the elite Citizens’
League were appointed to administrative positions. Most damaging,
the chairman of the league, Leslie Iohnston, was appointed director
of public works, a position second only to the public safety director-
ship in the number of potential patronage jobs. Both important offices
were now in the hands of anti-organization men.

Lawrence's attempts to block further appointments and to gain
control of his unruly protégé were met with both private and public
rebuffs. In a stormy session at party headquarters on 4 May 1934,
Lawrence criticized McNair’s public actions and charged that Mrs.
Smith was turning the mayor against the Democratic organization.
McNair responded by accusing the party chairman of trying to estab-
lish a dictatorship in Pittsburgh. Lawrence ”pounded his ring on the
desk and ordered McNair from his office.” Relations between the two
deteriorated further when McNair used the press to raise the ”ripper”
issue. Shortly after his battle with Lawrence, he repeated his earlier
charge to a group of newsmen at city hall. ”David Lawrence will never
let me serve out my term. He'll rip me out of office or throw me
in jail.’’7

Clearly unable to exercise any control over the man whom he
had put into office, Lawrence followed his customary practice. When
intraparty battles arose, he did his best to minimize them. McNair’s
charges notwithstanding, the available evidence suggests that Law-
rence would have weathered the storm at least until the next elec-
tion. He attempted to avoid further confrontation and the risk of split-
ting the party by divorcing himself from city government. McNair,
for the time being, could have his own way. The mayor, unfortunately,
was unable to accept the victory or control his own impetuous be-
havior and eventually forced the issue.

V

Lawrence's willingness to tolerate McNair’s eccentricities was tied
to his desire to see the adolescent Democratic party in Allegheny
County grow to maturity. Party unity, he reasoned, was essential to
a healthy development. His preoccupation in early 1934 with politi-

90 <1 Don't call me boss

cal affairs beyond the county lines, moreover, drew his attention away
from purely local matters. The relationship with Guffey had already
produced rewards, but many more remained to be collected. After the
opening of his patronage office in the nation's capital, Guffey, who
already had his eyes on a seat in the U.S. Senate, turned to his loyal
ally Lawrence. National office required the defeat of the entrenched
state Republican regime and the development of a strong Democratic
organization. But Guffey already decided that he enjoyed the heady
atmosphere of power in Washington too much to return to the seedy,
cutthroat world of Pennsylvania politics. He had several weapons of
his own. As state Democratic national committeeman and one of
the state's wealthiest Democrats, he was considered by leading party
members from Philadelphia, Harrisburg, and Pittsburgh to be the head
of the party. In addition, as an early financial and political supporter
of Roosevelt, he had the backing and friendly ear of the national ad-
ministration. Furthermore, as has already been noted, he had virtu-
ally unquestioned control of all federal patronage due the state. He
also had Lawrence, who had just proved his organizational skills and
owed much to Guffey, as an ally. Together, they could unseat the
incumbent Republican regime.

The Democratic State Committee, which included Warren Van
Dyke, chainnan, Lawrence, Guffey, and two rising Philadelphia stars,
Iack Kelly and Matthew McCloskey, met several times in Ianuary
1934 to map strategy for extending the recent Pittsburgh victories
across the state of Pennsylvania. The optimistic group expected to
gain control of both chambers of the General Assembly, the gover-
nor’s office, and a U.S. senatorship, for the first time in the century.
Hopeful of avoiding a costly primary battle, it drew up a slate that
it felt would bring harmony to the party. To head the party as candi-
date for the U.S. Senate, the slating committee turned to its bright-
est star, Guffey. He was by far the most prominent Democrat in the
state and was clearly associated with the New Deal, which by now
had strong support throughout Pennsylvania. He wanted the position,
had virtually uncontested control of the party, and was in a financial
position to contribute heavily to his own campaign.

Van Dyke, by virtue of his long service, was the logical choice
to carry the party's standard for governor. His candidacy, however,
aroused no great enthusiasm among the party leaders. They would
have a difficult time presenting him, an old-line regular, to liberal
Republicans and independents, both crucial in a state in which Re-
publicans outnumbered Democrats by more than three to one. Van
Dyke, meeting with Guffey, Lawrence, lack Kelly, and a few others,

Expanding the Network l> 91

agreed to step aside for the ”good of the party.” It was generally agreed
that the party heads would support him for the same position in 1938.3

Guffey then suggested George H. Earle, a multimillionaire Main
Line Philadelphian currently serving as Roosevelt's ambassador to
Austria. A World War I submarine commander, an accomplished pilot,
and one of the nation's top polo players, Earle spent a decade engag-
ing in the pursuits of the idle rich. He held the title of vice president
in his family's sugar firm but rarely entered the office or factories.
A Republican whose family GOP roots ran back to the founding of
the party, he gave no evidence of any political interests until 1931.
Shocked by the poverty he saw on a visit to Chicago, he switched
parties and came to Roosevelt's attention by contributing $35,000
to the 1932 national campaign and a similar amount to Roosevelt
Democrats in Pennsylvania? After Roosevelt's inauguration, Guffey
recommended Earle for a diplomatic post, but reports of his exces-
sive drinking nearly led to his rejection. Earle vowed to abstain, and
Guffey persuaded Roosevelt to accept Earle’s pledge. To his credit,
no incidents occurred during his tenure in Austria.

Responding to a letter from Guffey, Earle returned to Pennsylvania
in February 1934 to meet with the Democratic State Committee, and
he won their endorsement. His willingness to contribute a substan-
tial amount of money to support the state ticket, as well as his abil-
ity to attract a following among Republicans and independents in
eastern Pennsylvania, were apparently all that was needed to con-
vince the party leaders. Earle made good his promise by donating
more than $175,000 to the party war chest before the campaign ended
in November.”

The slate now appeared to have the ideal balance——an organiza-
tion regular from the largest city in the western part of the state and
a former Republican liberal from the east. Both were well bred, and
ardent Roosevelt supporters. Neither, however, could claim to repre-
sent the state's several million blue-collar workers. The party had
openly courted organized labor since 1928, and Lawrence had succeeded
in putting a union representative, Iohn Kane, on the Pittsburgh city
council, but the alliance between labor and the Democratic organiza-
tion was still fragile. The party cemented those relationships when
it selected John L. Lewis's man, Thomas Kennedy, secretary-treasurer
of the United Mine Workers, as Earle’s running mate.

David Lawrence played an important role in choosing the Demo-
cratic slate, but it was clear to all that he was still Gufiey’s man and
this was to be Guffey’s campaign. He placed Guffey’s name in nomina-
tion at the slate meeting on 9 February, and he offered support for

92 < Don’t call me boss

Earle even though the two had met only briefly during the 1932 Roose-
velt campaign. It is not clear what role, if any, he played in the selec-
tion of Kennedy. His activities, however, remained consistent with
those in earlier elections. By avoiding a strong stand on any of the
named candidates, he was free to offer vigorous support to the choices
of the party leadership, whoever they might be. In addition, except-
ing the Guffey candidacy, with which he was closely associated, his
reluctance to offer early identification with any candidate placed him
in an ideal position to act as power broker should a deadlock arise.
His willingness to accept Earle as the gubernatorial candidate dem-
onstrates both his sense of timing and his readiness to support the
party's choice.

Lawrence knew, as did nearly everyone else close to the seat of
power, of Earle’s reputation for excessive drinking and strongly dis-
approved. He also disapproved of Earle’s life-style before he became
ambassador to Austria. Earle had displayed none of the qualities that
would suggest that he could lead a state under severe economic pres-
sure. On the contrary, he was the type whom Lawrence would nor-
mally hold in contempt. He appeared to be virtually without ideas,
totally unprepared, and almost without accomplishment. But he had
done nothing to create any political controversy. He was a safe can-
didate who would not upset the delicate balance among the party fac-
tions. In addition, Earle’s blue-blood Republican background could
be counted upon to win over independents and wavering Republicans.
Thus Lawrence overcame his deep misgivings to become an ardent
supporter of Earle during the primary and general elections.

The party leaders were mistaken in their belief that the well-
balanced ticket would result in an uncontested primary. Roland S.
Morris, former ambassador to Iapan, opposed the closed slating sys-
tem and entered the senatorial primary as a protest candidate. The
govemor’s race, meanwhile, attracted four other candidates, includ-
ing Mayor McNair, who apparently placed his name on the ballot to
irritate Lawrence. McNair failed to run an active campaign, but all
the other candidates crisscrossed the state promising support for
Roosevelt and a New Deal for Pennsylvania. The independents, who
offered proposals little different from those of Guffey and Earle, were
overwhelmed in the primary by what had become a well-functioning
party organization.“

In the month following the May primary, Gui-fey, now without
a serious rival, and Lawrence were ready to consolidate their power.
Guffey, upon his election, would exercise his influence on the Roose-
velt administration in Washington, while Lawrence remained at home

Expanding the Network [> 93

minding local affairs including, presumably, keeping an eye on the
new governor. Two important events, however, had to be engineered:
Guffey had to win the general election, and Lawrence had to be placed
at the locus of power in the state. Guffey accomplished the second
goal by quietly meeting with key members of the Democratic State
Committee to gain support for a plan to elevate Lawrence. The state
party chairman, Van Dyke, was to be offered a position from Guffey’s
patronage bag as collector of the Port of Philadelphia. Lawrence would
become state chairman. Gufiey and Lawrence met with Van Dyke
to present their plan. Van Dyke, who had been in politics too long
not to recognize the inevitability of a power shift, accepted the trans-
fer without a fight. Two days later, he armounced his resignation as
state Democratic chairman under the pretext that the rigors of the
campaign required a younger man. Besides, he had been promised the
candidacy for governor in 1938 and was reluctant to alienate any po-
tential support from Guffey and Lawrence. In his place, Guffey and
the other successful statewide Democratic candidates nominated the
logical successor, David L. Lawrence, who was elected to the posi-
tion on 9 June 1934. There were no other nominees.” On 25 Iuly
Lawrence resigned his position as Pittsburgh's collector of internal
revenue, explaining, ”I plan to devote all my time to the campaign
as Democratic State Chairman.” He had, after nearly three decades
in politics, achieved what for him was his ultimate political goal-
the full-time professional leadership of the Pennsylvania Democratic
party. One hurdle remained. As matters currently stood, he was forced
to share his power with Guffey. Within the next six months, Law-
rence would challenge him for complete control of the organization.”

Lawrence seized the opportunity presented by Guffey’s ambition
for national office to add to his own power in the state. In return for
Lawrence's cooperation in the campaign, Guffey agreed to relinquish
formal control over all state-level patronage; accordingly, he informed
the state's twenty-three U.S. representatives that they would be re-
quired to submit all requests for patronage through Lawrence. The
agreement benefited both men.” Guffey cleverly distanced himself
from the patronage issue, which was threatening to become a state-
wide scandal, while serving notice on all legislators from Pennsyl-
vania that those who failed to fall into line would be denied the use
of the party spoils. Even U.S. representatives would be prevented from
building their own independent organizations. Lawrence, at the same
time, greatly enhanced his own position. He would shortly exercise
his newly won power to depose Guffey as the state's number one
Democrat. A victory by Guffey and Earle in November would nearly

94 <1 Don't call me boss

complete the job by removing Gufiey from the local scene and giving
Lawrence, as state chairman, control over thousands of state patron-
age jobs to add to his already substantial total. A Democratic sweep
in the upcoming election and some solution to the McN air problem
were crucial.

The fall election season in Pennsylvania customarily begins on
Labor Day. This gave Lawrence barely seven weeks in which to fash-
ion an effective statewide organization. The 1932 election had demon-
strated that many Pennsylvanians were becoming disenchanted with
Republican rule, and a victory seemed a definite possibility. How-
ever, it was also a fact that, excepting Pittsburgh and Allegheny
County, the state had remained loyal to Hoover in spite of Pennsyl-
vania's disastrous economic conditions. The Democratic party in
Pennsylvania was no longer an election long shot, but neither was
it a solid favorite.

Lawrence utilized the period between his election as state chair-
man and the beginning of the campaign to canvass the state, meeting
with local, city, and organization leaders. His control over patronage
enabled him to win new converts to the party and to reward those
county and city chairmen who accepted his leadership. Many of these,
he quickly discovered, were fiercely independent men who could not
be pressured into compliance with the same tactics he had employed
on ward chairmen in Pittsburgh. He would have to win them over-
convince them that a Democratic victory was not only possible but
likely and encourage them to work toward victory as most had never
worked before. Democrats throughout the state had grown accus-
tomed to Republican victories and generally followed the old Pitts-
burgh pattern of acting as a subsidiary of the dominant Republican
organization.

The new chairman met with local party leaders throughout the
state to discuss election strategy, and these meetings were often fol-
lowed by a rally of as many workers as possible. The election was
a critical matter for Pennsylvania if it was to share in the recovery
programs of the New Deal. Party leaders were to organize rallies as
often as possible during the campaign and were to be more active than
in any previous election. The state organization would help wher-
ever it could, and candidates and party officials, including Lawrence
himself, would appear frequently. Each local organization, however,
was expected to raise funds to cover its own expenses and would be
expected to contribute a specified amount to the statewide campaign.
Those who failed to do so could not expect much when the victori-
ous party assumed office in Ianuary.” Lawrence later explained how

Expanding the Network l> 95

his fund-raising system operated. ”In my own county of Allegheny,
we have a club system. Pretty near every ward, borough and town-
ship has an organization. They are asked from time to time to raise
funds and contribute them to the county organization, and then the
county organization will send in funds to the state committee. . . .
A year ago we contributed $10,000 to the state committees. . . . They
hold . . . various types of fund raising campaigns, and likewise they
asked prominent Democrats to contribute. They asked those who
had positions . . . and candidates for office . . . to contribute/'15

Back in Harrisburg, Lawrence and a small staff developed an elec-
tion campaign schedule for the major candidates designed to get them
into as many municipalities as possible. They scheduled repeat visits
in the crucial cities such as Wilkes-Barre, Scranton, Erie, Pittsburgh,
and Philadelphia, whose newly elected city chairman, Jack Kelly, was
a strong supporter of Gufiey and Earle. Particular attention was paid
to those regions that narrowly missed returning a Democratic Vic-
tory in 1932. The Pittsburgh speech writer whom Lawrence employed
for the McNair election, Eddie Jones, was brought to Harrisburg to
contribute his particular talents to Guffey, Earle, and Kennedy. The
slashing attacks on Republican corruption and the obsolescence of
its tired leadership clearly carried the mark of his poison pen.

As they had in their two previous defeats in 1932 and 1933, the
Republicans again contributed to their own downfall. The bitter bat-
tles they waged during the 1934 primary campaign left a number of
wounds unhealed, severely hampering any attempt at a united fall
campaign. Governor Gifford Pinchot, unable to succeed himself, de-
clared his candidacy for the U.S. Senate seat held by an organization
Republican, David A. Reed. He championed the New Deal while not
incorrectly attacking Reed as one of its chief roadblocks. Reed coun-
tered by attacking the tax policies of the Roosevelt administration
and Pinchot as an opportunist who would follow anyone to guaran-
tee himself a seat in the U.S. Senate.

Contention for the office currently held by Pinchot was even more
vigorous. No fewer than sixteen Republicans announced themselves
candidates for governor, while fourteen entered the race for lieutenant
governor. Three serious gubernatorial contenders eventually emerged,
pulling the leadership of the party in different directions. Philadel-
phia boss William Vare and the Pittsburgh followers of Pinchot sup-
ported the incumbent lieutenant governor, William Sharmon. The
Philadelphia organization's rising power, Ioseph Grundy, contend-
ing with Vare for control of the City of Brotherly Love, rejected Vare’s
choice. Joining with William L. Mellon, he forced a curious choice,


96 <1 Don’t call me boss

Attorney General William Schnader, upon the regular Republican or-
ganization. Schnader had been a loyal supporter of Governor Pinchot
and President Roosevelt for the past four years. Consequently he
found it difficult to attack either with enthusiasm and ran a gener-
ally listless campaign.“ The third candidate was Charles I. Margi-
otti, an independent Republican.

Margiotti experienced no problem in either temperament or view-
point that would inhibit his attacks on his Republican opponents.
A quick-minded trial lawyer from western Pennsylvania, he had al-
ready begun to attract a following of cultlike intensity. His represen-
tation of celebrated criminal defendants and his ability to win huge
financial settlements spread his fame over the entire state. In time,
he would defend 150 persons accused of murder: only two received
first-degree convictions; most were acquitted. He was equally suc-
cessful as a prosecutor, sending more than 25 persons to the electric
chair. In 1930, he made national headlines ”as the eager special prose-
cutor who sent Irene Schroder, the first female to be executed in Penn-
sylvania, to the electric chair at Rockview Penitentiary.” Always
described by his contemporaries as both brilliant and arrogant, the
Punxsutawney-bom son of Italian immigrants charmed his friends
with his acerbic wit and sophisticated manner. He could be cruelly
frank and, as David Lawrence would discover, treated his enemies
with disdain and vindictive hostility.”

In a hurriedly organized campaign financed largely by himself,
Margiotti traveled the state by automobile, speaking to large crowds.
He proved to be the most liberal of the three Republican candidates,
supporting nearly all the efforts of President Roosevelt and prom-
ising aid for organized labor and a minimum wage for women and
children. Schnader and Shannon could offer only mild opposition.
The Republican candidates for governor had all begun to sound like
Democrats.

The organization candidates from both sides of the political aisle
emerged victorious in the spring primary. Democrats Guffey and Earle
easily swept the state as well as both major cities, winning by 333,000
and 2 5o,ooo votes respectively. Their opponents hardly figured in the
race and, excepting William McN air, who refused to withdraw, agreed
to accept the will of the majority. The Guffey-Lawrence forces could
enter the fall campaign with a united party.

The Republican forces, however, were less fortunate. Reflecting
the division within the party, both Pinchot and Margiotti captured
considerable support. Incumbent Senator David Reed, partner in an
important Pittsburgh law firm founded by his father, carried the state

Expanding the Network l> 97

by less than 100,000 votes. Schnader easily defeated his nearest op-
ponents, Sharmon and Margiotti, by 340,000 and 348,000 votes respec-
tively. Five other candidates received more than 50,000 votes each.

The results of the races for the Senate and the govemorship, how-
ever, suggested serious trouble ahead for the organized Republican
forces. First, Governor Pinchot made it clear immediately after the
primary that he had no intention of backing Reed, or Schnader for
that matter, and gave indications that he might run as an indepen-
dent. Second, while Schnader won, 53 percent had voted against
him. Third, Margiotti, who defeated Schnader in nine western Penn-
sylvania counties, including Allegheny, and captured a substantial
portion of the Italian vote in Pittsburgh and Philadelphia, gave indi-
cations that he also was going to be diflicult to deal with. On the
evening of the primary, when it became clear that he would be de-
feated, he wired his campaign managers, ”Don’t make any announce-
ments.” His exorbitant demands on the Republican organization in
return for his cooperation ultimately led Gnmdy to instruct Schnader
to ”tell him to go to hell/'13 Margiotti could take his support else-
where, and eventually he did.

The general election campaign of 1934 mirrored the Pittsburgh
campaign of the previous year: prominent individuals shifted to the
Democratic party, and new voting coalitions were formed. Nation-
ally, blue-collar workers, organized labor, ethnic groups, and certain
special interest groups had already switched party affiliations. Penn-
sylvanians, who had held fast in 1932, were now ready to join their
counterparts all over the country.

Lawrence began the campaign on the evening of his election as
state chairman by attacking the Republican moneyed interests, which,
he charged were attempting to buy the election. "There is not enough
money in all the Mellon banks or in the treasury of the Pennsylvania
Manufacturers’ Association to pay for another U.S. Senatorship for
the reactionary David A. Reed, . . . nor for a Govemorship for Ioe
Grundy’s attorney Bill Schnader; [nor] for a Lieutenant Govemorship
for the unspeakable Harry Scott, who personjfies the vicious system
of the Senate of Pennsylvania for the past 50 years. I say there is not
enough Mellon money or Grundy Greenbacks in Pennsylvania to buy
this election, if we can only get across to all the people of this Com-
monwealth what they have at stake next November/'19 The wealth
of the Republican leadership was a theme to which he and his can-
didates would return repeatedly. In a state where unemployment con-
tinued to hover near 25 percent and welfare recipients approached
one million, the charge needed little amplification. Neither Lawrence

98 <1 Don’t call me boss

nor the Democratic candidates, of course, commented upon the
wealth of millionaires Gufiey and Earle, although Pinchot attempted
to raise it as an issue. The attack fell on unsympathetic ears. The
Democrats were simply not in the same league. The choice was clear
for those who blamed the Depression upon the wealthy or manufac-
turing interests in America.

But it was the Democratic party platform, presented the same
night as Lawrence's attack, that offered promise for the state's work-
ing class. The brief statement of twenty sentences advocated numer-
ous social welfare reforms, including a ”job for the man who wants
to work; the abolition of child labor; regulation of hours and labor
for women; a minimum wage; elimination of industrial police ; abso-
lute right of collective bargaining for labor; old age pensions and un-
employment reserves and the outlawing of sweat shops.” Lawrence
summed it up by noting that ”in our platform we make a solemn cove-
nant with the people of Pennsylvania that if the Democratic Party
of Pennsylvania is given the mandate it asks it will bring the New
Deal into our state Govemment/'20 It is unclear whether Lawrence's
reference to a New Deal for Pennsylvania was the first use of such
a term, but it quickly became popular. The Republican press in Phila-
delphia first inadvertently publicized the concept, ridiculing it as ”a
Little New Deal.” The term stuck, and it became the popular cam-
paign and rallying slogan of the Democrats for the next four years.

The promises of the Democratic platform and the appeal of the
Roosevelt program were perhaps enough to win the election outright,
but the newly elected state chairman took no chances. Lawrence
would not abandon his practice of ”running scared” now. As in previ-
ous elections, he left the speaking and public appearances to the can-
didates and their skilled speech writer, Eddie Iones. Lawrence instead
played a low-key role, working behind the scenes to win over impor-
tant voting blocs and key Republican supporters.

The conversion of the black vote was considerably easier than
it had been in the two previous elections. Robert Vann had received
the promised federal appointment, and even though it never matched
his exectations, he was grateful to his two sponsors, Lawrence and
Guffey. He returned to Pennsylvania in the fall to repay his debt. He
stumped the state, stressing the willingness of Democrats to provide
patronage appointments for blacks and emphasizing the Democratic
theme that a vote for Gufiey and Earle was a vote for the New Deal.
A special issue of the Pittsburgh Courier that circulated in both Pitts-
burgh and Philadelphia provided a lengthy list of state and national
jobs provided to blacks by Gufiey. Earle strengthened the Democrats’

Expanding the Network [> 99

appeal to blacks by emphasizing his family connection to the black
struggle for freedom. His great grandfather, Thomas Earle, an anti-
slavery Quaker, had financed an underground railroad station for
runaway slaves and had vigorously opposed a Pennsylvania law ex-
cluding blacks from voting in state elections. Schnader, on the other
hand, had earned the disfavor of blacks by opposing an equal rights
bill and a bill establishing two black Pennsylvania National Guard
units. ”The Negro people of this state are obligated to the Earle fam-
ily,” the Philadelphia Independent editorialized. Earle cemented his
relationship with the state's black leadership by hosting a lavish din-
ner for the Negro Citizens’ Democratic Committee just before the
November election.“ The Democratic platforrn’s emphasis on social
justice, of course, while not specifically mentioning blacks, appealed
to a large number and, as contemporary interviews suggest, was the
key to winning the black vote.

Another special concern of Lawrence's was the state's large num-
ber of Italian-American voters. Those in Pittsburgh had supported both
Roosevelt and McNair, but the Italian neighborhoods in South Phila-
delphia had remained in the Republican camp. In the recent primary,
they continued to vote Republican but deserted the organization to
follow Margiotti. Throughout the summer Margiotti remained silent
on his plans despite many attempts by both parties and the press to
sound him out. He controlled nearly 2oo,ooo Republican followers,
many of whom were of Italian descent and might conceivably bring
them over into the Democratic camp. As an independent candidate
he could not win, but his candidacy could throw the election into
turmoil. In August 1934, Lawrence requested a meeting—one he no
doubt regretted for years after——with the irrepressible Margiotti. The
two met in the privacy of the attomey’s Pittsburgh office. The tone
and direction of the discussion is unfortunately lost, but, as subse-
quent events made clear, they reached an amicable accord. It now
seems reasonable to speculate that Margiotti, highly skilled in nego-
tiating, extracted a steep price for his support of the Democratic ticket.
A victory in November would guarantee him a high-level state posi-
tion, no doubt as attorney general.

The ambitious Margiotti later claimed that Lawrence also agreed
to support him for governor in 1938. Lawrence may have intimated
as much, but it is doubtful. He desired the potential votes commanded
by Margiotti, but the two hardly knew each other. It is unlikely that
Lawrence, now fairly confident of victory in 1934 and perhaps 1938,
would ransom the future of the party to a virtual stranger. Also,
Margiotti knew that Lawrence alone did not control the party. It is

100 <1 Don't call me boss

improbable that he would have accepted such an agreement, if it had
been offered, at face value. Without Guffey’s acceptance, it would be
worthless. Finally, it is doubtful that Lawrence, who always preferred
to keep his options open until the last moment, would agree to such
a demand four years before the fact. It was simply not his way of put-
ting together a ticket. Nevertheless, it is clear that the two men did
reach an agreement on Margiotti’s price for his endorsement of the
Democratic ticket—a place in the Earle cabinet.

Margiotti informed Lawrence that he intended to discuss the
issue one more time with the Republican leadership before accept-
ing any offer, and in September he attended the Republican State Com-
mittee meeting in Pittsburgh. The two sides failed to reach an ac-
cord and two days later Margiotti issued his long-awaited announce-
ment. Decrying the ”baneful influence” on the Republican party of
Grundy and Mellon and their wealth, he proposed ”to support the
Democratic ticket as the only practical way of securing to the people
of Pennsylvania the decent social and economic relief to which they
are entitled/'22

Margiotti carried out his promise to support the Democrats by
ignoring his law practice to campaign for the ticket. Concentrating
his efforts on the areas where his primary vote had been strong—in
the organized labor communities in western Pennsylvania, in the
Italian-American neighborhoods in Pittsburgh and Philadelphia,
and in his home county, ]eFferson—he drew huge crowds to hear his
attacks on the ”privileged interests of the Republican party.” When
a five-hundred-car caravan turned out to greet Margiotti and Earle
in the attomey’s home town of Punxsutawney, Earle was so over-
whelmed that he remarked to Margiotti’s former campaign mana-
ger, ”If I am ever elected governor, there isn't any place in my cabinet
Charley can't have/'23 Charley would soon get the only job he wanted,
that of attorney general.

The efforts of Lawrence to bring Margiotti into the fold paid im-
portant dividends, but it was the appeal of Franklin D. Roosevelt and
the promise of a New Deal for Pennsylvania that made the great-
est impact.“ Kermit McFarland, a journalist, traveled the state dur-
ing the campaign interviewing prospective voters. "T hey are talking
about only one man and that man is Franklin D. Roosevelt. . . . It
was expressed to me by farmers, soda clerks, waitresses, barbers, hotel
desk clerks, laborers, unemployed, hitch-hikers and skilled union
workers.”25

In spite of election eve charges that the Democratic leadership
was willing to sacrifice Earle to ensure Guffey’s election and that

Expanding the Network l>

McNair had endorsed Earle’s opponent, the entire Democratic ticket
won a narrow but decisive victory. Gufiey’s margin over Senator Reed
was 128,000 votes, and Earle’s over Schnader exceeded 66,000, although
neither Democrat emerged victorious from the Republican strong-
hold of Philadelphia. Guffey lost Philadelphia County by 43,000 votes,
while Earle was defeated there by nearly 20,000 votes. The Lawrence-
Guffey Democratic machine in western Pennsylvania, in contrast,
supplied vote margins of 143,000 to Guffey and 122,000 to Earle, more
than half of each majority being provided by the Lawrence-controlled
Allegheny County. Cambria and Erie counties, each with a large or-
ganized labor vote, also provided substantial majorities to the two
Democratic candidates. Ironically, they squeezed out the barest of
majorities in Charles Margiotti’s home county of Iefierson.-7-6

In addition to its two major victories, the Democratic party won
all other contested statewide offices, 22 of 32 seats in the U.S. House
of Representatives, 116 of 206 State House seats, and 16 of 25 State
Senate seats. The victory gave the Democrats their first U.S. senator-
ship in fifty-nine years, the first Democratic majority in the U.S.
House in the twentieth century, the first Democratic governor since
1894, and the first Democratic majority in the State House in over
half a century. Every Democratic State Senate and House candidate
from Allegheny County would be moving to Harrisburg in Ianuary.
The sweep was nearly total. One crucial missing ingredient, however,
as the subsequent years would show, was lack of control of the State
Senate. The Republicans, by virtue of their huge previous majority,
retained control by 31 to 19.

Lawrence, presiding over his Pittsburgh headquarters, was ecstatic
as the results were reported to him. Paying homage to the president
and taking a parting stab at the devastated opposition, he declared,
"T he victory is a sweeping endorsement of the policies and adminis-
tration of Franklin D. Roosevelt and the New Deal. For the people
of Pennsylvania it is a red letter day marking the emancipation of
millions from the yoke of the Mellon-Grundy industrial and finan-
cial autocracy/'27

V

The November victory brought several major changes in Law-
rence’s life. First, the Pennsylvanian with whom he had shared power
for the past twenty-four months, Ioe Guffey, would be leaving the
state to take up his new duties in Washington, D.C. Thus Lawrence
became the top Democrat in charge of state matters. Second, within
a week of the election, Earle armounced that he was taking the man

101

102 <1 Don't call me boss

who engineered his victory to Harrisburg with him as secretary of
the Commonwealth. The appointment, while suggested to Earle by
Gufiey and Lawrence, was not one the govemor-elect made with any
reluctance. Earle, who had little idea of the workings of government,
was now expected to carry out the promise of a Little New Deal for
Pennsylvanians. As his chief cabinet official, Lawrence could provide
important day-to-day advice and guidance. Within a short time, it
became clear to all those working in the inner circles in Harrisburg
that Lawrence was managing the policies of the administration while
Earle acted as the public spokesman, delivering important speeches
and encouraging the press to support the measures designed to bring
relief to the state. Third, Lawrence's new position required him to
spend a greater amount of time in Harrisburg, away from both his
family and the increasing political turmoil in Pittsburgh.

Lawrence returned to the city of his birth nearly every weekend,
taking the 3:42 P.M. train out of Harrisburg on Friday and arriving in
Pittsburgh approximately five hours later. He usually returned to
Harrisburg on Sunday evening. He once remarked that he intended
to reserve the weekends for his family, but a diary he kept for a short
time in 193 5 indicates that most of the time was spent at party head-
quarters tending to the political and administrative mess that McN air
was busily creating. He scarcely had time to see his four children,
now aged seven through thirteen, grow into their teens. It was a loss
he would later deeply regret.“

Several times during the month of November, Earle met with
Lawrence and Guffey to discuss and complete his cabinet selections.
Their influence can be seen in the number of persons ——ten of the top
siXteen—from western Pennsylvania chosen for what became known
as the ”little brain trust.” Among those were Eddie Iones, who was
rewarded for his efforts as publicity writer by being named secretary
of labor and industry. Margiotti, in spite of a lengthy protest to the
press, was delighted to cash in on his pre-election deal by accepting
the post of state attorney general. ”I didn't want the job,” he later re-
called in a classic self-serving statement, ”but I agreed to think it
over. It meant a terrific financial sacrifice on my part. . . . I finally
came to the conclusion that I had to take it, not for myself, but for
the sake of others like myself, men who were Catholics and who had
foreign-sounding names. I kept thinking of all the trouble I had had
in politics because I was a Catholic and because I was of Italian ori-
gin. I kept thinking of my son who has the same name as mine. I
kept thinking that it might be another hundred years before people

Expanding the Network l>

like us would get another chance to rise so high in the government
of Pennsylvania/29

After the selection of the cabinet, Lawrence called the victorious
members of the lower house of the General Assembly together in
Harrisburg in December to lay down the procedures to be followed
in the upcoming legislative session. With a comfortable majority in
the House, the party chairman was determined to establish a united
front in carrying out his Little New Deal. ”If we are to be successful
in enacting this legislative program, you must realize at the outset
that it can only be accomplished by concerted team work/'44 He pro-
posed to guarantee such teamwork through a preselected House Steer-
ing Committee, which consisted entirely of old-line party regulars
who had previously demonstrated that they could be trusted to do
the party's bidding. Not a single committee member was nominated
from the newly elected representatives, who made up approximately
half of the lower body's Democrats. They would have to earn leader-
ship positions. Despite a few mild murmurs of discontent to the press
later, freshman members accepted the party nominees without op-
position. Lawrence's closing advice to the group established the prac-
tice he expected them to follow during the next four years and one
that became a hallmark of his government and party work during the
next third of a century: keep all disputes within the family. ”You
name[d] your own leaders whom you can respect and trust,” he told
them, ignoring his orchestration of the elective process. ”Confer with
them. Discuss proposed legislation with them. Do not hesitate to
voice to them your objections to provisions in measures if you have
good grounds for your opposition. If you are out-voted, be good sol-
diers. Follow your leaders and in doing so, we will stand a better
chance of making this coming session the most noteworthy of all
the legislative sessions in the entire history of Pennsylvania/'30

The meeting set the tone for the legislative session that followed
and informed the legislators that Lawrence intended to play an ac-
tive role in pushing through the Democratic program. When the leg-
islature convened in Ianuary, the House leadership established a prac-
tice of holding regular caucuses at which Lawrence, who acted as
chairman, or one of his aides would outline any impending legisla-
tion and explain the official party stance. A generally free and open
discussion followed, and the caucus chairman fielded questions or
responded to criticism or suggestions regarding the proposed legisla-
tion. Occasionally, adjustments to the proposal were offered and ac-
cepted. Outright opposition, however, was rarely suggested. On the

103

104 <1 Don’t call me boss

few occasions when the group proved unable to achieve consensus,
the proposed bill was withdrawn, to be submitted another day. Party
leaders, including Lawrence, employed the interim to persuade re-
calcitrant members to accept the leadership view. Postponement of
legislation, in Lawrence's view, was always preferable to a divided
party in the legislature.

This is not to suggest that Lawrence tolerated no opposition
within the party. He expected loyalty from party members, but he
could accept and respect independence as long as both sides under-
stood the rules. For example, Al Tronzo, a freshman representative,
initially refused to accept Lawrence's leadership or the caucus rule
and insisted on fighting anything he didn't like on the floor of the
House. Lawrence called him in. ”Dave wanted to know . . . why I
wouldn't attend caucuses. When I gave him the reason, he said, ’VV ell,
if I can fix it up so that you can still walk out and fight on the floor
any measure that you don't participate in in the caucus, will you at-
tend?’ . . . And by jingo he had the Democratic caucus agree to make
an exception . . . and that's how I started attending the Democratic
caucus. I really enjoyed it and learned something/'31 Lawrence's tac-
tic had valuable results, for Tronzo eventually became a fierce Law-
rence supporter and one of the most loyal Democratic members of
the State House of Representatives. Lawrence later demonstrated his
appreciation of Tronzo’s willingness to cooperate by appointing him
director of housing for the city of Pittsburgh.

Occasionally, when the group proved unable to reach agreement
on the details of an important piece of legislation, Lawrence removed
himself from the deliberative process and ordered the differing mem-
ber to ”work things out.” One such incident occurred over a Pennsyl-
vania minimum wage law. Al Tronzo and others were fighting for
forty-five or fifty cents an hour. For Iack Kelly, who was the Phila-
delphia Democratic chairman and was also making bricks there, ”it
was too damned much, and he kept haggling, arguing. In desperation
Dave brought the gavel down and brought the caucus to a halt. . . .
Dave was pretty hot at the time and said, ‘W ell you sit down and work
it out with Al, and anything he agrees with will be acceptable with
us.”’ Kelly did not immediately comply, but they worked it out later.”

Normally, however, the group that rode into office on the prom-
ise of a social reform program accepted the will of the party leader-
ship. While the caucus vote might not be unanimous, legislators were
expected to follow the unit rule on the floor. Not surprisingly, Demo-
cratic members of the House nearly always voted en masse for the
administration's proposed legislation during the 1935-38 sessions.

Expanding the Network l>

Lawrence established the same type of control over the Demo-
cratic Senate caucus, but, because Democrats remained a substantial
minority during the 1935-36 legislative session, the imposed unity pro-
duced few tangible results. It was thus not until the second half of
the Earle administration that the Little New Deal began to take effect.

105

Preface

For nearly a century, Americans have been fascinated with the phe-
nomenon of machine politics. Ever since cartoonist Thomas N ast and
the editorial staff of the New York Times exposed the corruption of
the Tweed ring in New York, novelists, journalists, scholars, and po-
litical cartoonists have examined, condemned, idealized, and lam-
pooned urban bosses. Early observers criticized them for their greed
and corruption, and later, more objective studies pointed out that po-
litical machines performed a variety of services needed or desired by
their constituents. Iobs for the unemployed, contracts and elimina-
tion of governmental red tape for the businessman, and a benevolent
law enforcement policy for those providing illegal or illicit ”services”
to residents were all part of the urban machine. In turn the organiza-
tion received political loyalty and various kinds of open and clandes-
tine financial support. The boss operated the political organization
as a business in which he expected to receive something tangible for
himself or the party in return for the goods and services he delivered.
Bosses, like the society from which they emanated, were honest or
corrupt, benevolent or indifferent, efficient or inefficient. A number
brought important reforms to the city that they served.
Historians and political scientists have alternately pointed to the
demise and the persistence of machine politics in the mid twentieth
century. They generally agree, however, that the style and form of
urban politics have undergone a significant transformation during the
period from Roosevelt's New Deal to Iohnson’s Great Society. The
old ward-heeling political boss who traded jobs for votes was replaced
by a municipal manager who was as comfortable in the corporate
boardroom as in the smoke-filled room of party headquarters. Vari-
ous political refonns, new functions, and a more complex society de-

xi

Sports
Lawrence's love of sports in a sports-minded city helped to produce
a strong, emotional bond between Pittsburgh Voters and “Davey.”

The P.F. Toole Athletic Club, around 1910. It was one of the many sports clubs spon-
sored by prominent ward politicians. Peter T oole was a brother of first ward boss, Tommy
Toole. A young David Lawrence, second row center with the handkerchief in his pocket,
already appears to be a confident political figure. Carnegie Library, Pittsburgh

Always willing to pose with sports figures, Lawrence joins the starting backfield of
the 1949 Pittsburgh Steelers. Left to right: Ierry Nuzum, Charley Seabright, Lawrence,
Ioe Geri, George Papach. The Steelers’ record was 6 wins, 5 losses, and I tie that sea-
son. Carnegie Library, Pittsburgh

Lawrence, a season ticket holder for many years, displays hisexiiberance at the Pirates’
1960 World Series victory over the New York Yankees. It was their first championship
in 35 years. Courtesy Aima Mae Donahoe

Family

The Lawrence family, al-
though seldom active in
David's political life, al-
ways shared in his suc-
cesses and occasional set-
backs. Frequently absent
from the home, Lawrence
nevertheless maintained a
strong family loyalty.

  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
  
 
  
 
   

David and Alyce attend a Demo-
cratic Ball held to raise funds,
January 31, 1935. Carnegie Library,
Pittsburgh

The Lawrence family share in the
joy of David's first primary vic-
tory as a candidate for mayor, Au-
gust I3, 1945. Left to right: David,
Mary, Ierry, Arma Mae, Alyce.
Carnegie Library, Pittsburgh

    
   
  
      

Left side of govemor’s desk in the state capitol
in Harrisburg, showing photo of David, IL, and
William Brennen, killed in an automobile acci-
dent in 1942. The photo was always on Lawrence's
desk, wherever he was located. Carnegie Library,
Pittsburgh

Lawrence, accompanied by Alyce and a male
nurse, leaves the hospital following one of his
frequent eye operations, September 13, 1947. Car-
negie Library, Pittsburgh

., . 3..., ..

  L; nee lemma irinpeccabiydressed,even wfien p1aymgba11 with grandsons.
The boys are, from left to right: Michael (2), Tommy (I2), and David Donahoe (10).
Courtesy Arma Mae Donahoe

Politics

Lawrence, although basically a private man, was aware of the value
of a good publicity photo and seldom passed up the opportunity to
appear in front of the camera.  

   
     
  

Looking somewhat uncomfortable in straw hat, coat,
and tie, Lawrence appears astride the symbol of his
party. The photo was taken in 1931 during the Law-
rence campaign for county commissioner. Carnegie
Library, Pittsburgh

In a pose reminiscent of those made famous by Calvin Coolidge, Lawrence accepts
designation as an honorary Thunderbird by Navajo Silagos Tzo (Big Policeman) in the
lobby of the William Penn Hotel. Members of the tribe stayed in Pittsburgh enroute
to a show in New York, April 29, 1948. Carnegie Library, Pittsburgh

Mayor Lawrence joins in the
birthday celebration of ”Baby
Penny,” one of the elephants ap-
pearing in the Police Circus at
Forbes Field. The cake-cutting
occurred in the rotunda of the
City-County Building, August I,
1953. Carnegie Library, Pitts-
burgh

Vote tally recorded by Lawrence at party headquarters, November 19 57. Lawrence's
reported vote total was 137,281, 82,080 was that of his mayoralty opponent, Iohn Drew.
Below is Lawrence's shorthand recording of Drew's ”near concession” statement as re-
ported by phone to Lawrence by a Democratic aide. The translation of the Lawrence
transcription reads ”we have not officially conceded. It looks as though it is a land-
slide Victory for Mayor Lawrence. My political advisors have suggested that I hold up
sending the Mayor a telegram. As far as I can tell, it is just a matter of time.” Law-
rence, a one-time stenographer, had obviously not lost his touch. Courtesy Iames Knox

 

/37
(1
77 _
I“-—_"~§~«
 f;.3C&G
‘L V 54/ ix

y~4=.,LL.°{""%\
L_m/ -v
“&u“‘“l”
cu,“/‘ .-x°.°\,,"’>

fey,‘ ~c\,<

In one of his first official ”du-
ties” as governor, Lawrence at-
tempts to demonstrate his
milking skills at the Harris-
burg Farm Show. Lawrence
proved that he had spent little
time in rural surroundings.
Courtesy Anna Mae Donahoe

106

1935-1938

Exercising Power:
A Little New Deal and a Ripper

It has frequently been suggested that Lawrence underwent the meta-
morphosis from political boss to urban statesman upon assuming the
position of mayor of Pittsburgh in 1945. His political opponents and
the press viewed him in the role of the typical boss concerned with
winning elections, dispensing patronage and other favors, and build-
ing an unassailable power base. He was often accused of showing little
regard for the issues of government or the affairs of state. Even close
associates confess to an early view of Lawrence as a one-dimensional
person concerned only with political affairs. When he was elected
mayor in 1945, the Pittsburgh Press lectured, ”It is a great advantage
for a Mayor to be a good politician—provided he does not make poli-
tics the be-all and the end-all of his administration. . . . We hope that
he will rise above the temptation to be just a political boss and will
be a politician in the statesmanlike sense of that word. He has the
capacity and the experience/'1

What the Press and even Lawrence's associates failed to recog-
nize, however, was that he had given a strong indication of his abil-
ity to separate political and government affairs and of his concern
for the welfare of the electorate during his directorship of the Earle
program from 1935 through 1939.

When Lawrence moved to Harrisburg in Ianuary I935, Pennsyl-
vania was in as dire an economic and social condition as the city of
Pittsburgh had been in 1932-33. Unemployment had fallen slightly
since the Roosevelt inauguration two years earlier, but nearly one-
fourth of the labor force, 836,359 persons, was still without work when
Earle took office. Iobless rates in the major cities and among certain
blue-collar groups exceeded the statewide averages. Approximately
20 percent of the state's farmers were in default and others struggled

Exercising Power [>

to meet mortgage and loan obligations with the sale of food whose
prices had fallen 40 percent since 1932. Dairy farmers, a key agricul-
tural group, were hit particularly hard. Their inability to control pro-
ductivity resulted in wide swings in the availability of milk at cer-
tain times of year. Distributors, on the other hand, who controlled
storage facilities, could buy at low prices in times of surplus and dis-
tribute from their own supplies during short periods. Desperate farm-
ers who thus became victims of exploitation as well as of the De-
pression looked to Harrisburg for relief. To make matters worse, while
the state's Emergency Relief Board had supplied food and other provi-
sions to 1.7 million people during the previous year, its funds were
near exhaustion. It could continue operation for less than two months
without additional revenues. Unfortunately, the Pinchot administra-
tion, reluctant to impose new taxes, had left the state treasury bare.
It had, in fact, bequeathed a deficit of $15 million to the incoming
administration.-"~

While laborers, farmers, and others hard hit by the Depression
were looking to the new administration for relief, organized labor
expected deliverance from what it considered half a century of op-
pression at the hands of capital and industry. Although conditions
had improved somewhat from the pre—World War I period, they re-
mained far from acceptable. The twelve-hour day was no longer the
rule among Pennsylvania industries, but wages, which had climbed
gradually since the war, returned to their prewar rates during the De-
pression. Many who had jobs could barely maintain their families.
Women and children, forced to contribute, labored in sweatshops
and unsafe factories.

Attempts by workers to redress their grievances through collec-
tive bargaining had been beaten back regularly since the aborted steel
strike of 1919. Governor Pichot had attempted to provide some relief
by refusing to commission any new ”coal and iron” police after lune
1930. Companies, however, continued to control police departments
in coal and mining towns by paying their salaries. Workers’ salaries
had fallen, and compensation for job-related injuries and layoffs re-
mained woefully inadequate. Pennsylvania stood thirty-third among
all states in workingmen’s compensation, fortieth in compensation
for widows, and forty-fourth in provisions for medical payments.3
Organized labor as well as unorganized blue-collar workers in Penn-
sylvania had given important support to Roosevelt in 1932 and the
Guffey-Earle ticket in 1934 and now expected rewards.

Governor Earle and Lawrence, his top cabinet officer, had no grand
design based on a set of philosophical principles that would guide them

107

108 <1 Don't call me boss

through the murky future. Instead, as Lawrence later admitted, "W e
had the obvious problems of the residents of Pennsylvania to resolve
and we had Roosevelt's New Deal” to serve as a guide. In addition,
the lessons of his childhood and the persistent efforts to build a Demo-
cratic opposition to what he viewed as the party of privilege and spe-
cial interests provided a foundation for the difficult times ahead. ”He
came from a group which had been oppressed. . . . He knew what
being poor was all about . . . all his life he always associated himself
with the guy who was on the other side of the tracks. . . . That was
part of his upbringing/'4

From the three most influential persons in his life, his parents
and Billy Brennen, David Lawrence had acquired a simple but effec-
tive outlook. The world was divided into haves and have-nots. The
haves possessed the economic power and would use it relentlessly
unless checked by an equally powerful opposing force. Lawrence's in-
troduction to the world of the wealthy and powerful through his men-
tor Brennen also convinced him that those in control were not by
nature an evil class to be overthrown, and he came to understand,
if not accept, their viewpoint. The mission of the Democratic party
when it finally came to power in the midst of the Depression, there-
fore, would be to check the natural impulses of the economically
powerful and to act as the political and economic intermediary for
those without power. He retained this View of his party's social obli-
gation throughout his life. In his later years as mayor, for example,
he received a long letter from a powerful Sixteenth Ward commit-
teewoman protesting plans to develop a low-income housing project
on the South Side. She complained in particular that the project would
introduce some undesirable elements into the community and would
harm the neighborhood politically. The response characteristically
was short and to the point: ”Dear Ida: Your letter of February 23rd
received. When the Democratic party ceases to be interested in hous-
ing for the people, it ceases to be the Democratic party. Very truly
yours/'5 His understanding required no lengthy explanation. The
party had a clear role to play, aiding the electorate and the less for-
tunate. The government should be used to assist it in fulfilling that
obligation.

The approach, however, was in all cases to be a pragmatic one.
Lawrence had examined, admittedly briefly, the popular panaceas of
the day and found them wanting. As a short time member of Pitts-
burgh’s Henry George Club, he found the single tax too simple for
all the problems of the industrial world. He later privately ridiculed
William McNair’s adherence to the George philosophy as silly.6 It is

Exercising Power l>

unclear whether Lawrence ever considered socialism or other broad
philosophical approaches to restructuring society, but all the avail-
able evidence suggests that he remained fiscally too conservative to
be attracted by any radical approach. In his relationships with both
Democrats and Republicans, he preferred to work through the exist-
ing party apparatus rather than restructure the mechanisms of gov-
ernment. Critics during his early life complained that he often avoided
or hindered true reform movements through his willingness to work
with the ruling Republican interests. The same charge was often lev-
eled against him later, when, as head of Pittsburgh's government, he
worked with the corporate heads of Pittsburgh to induce the physi-
cal rehabilitation of the city.

Even organized labor, whose merits he had heard extolled since
childhood, failed to attract him as an ideology. He did indeed usually
support its causes, but he could never be counted upon as a labor poli-
tician. Labor, in his view, like any other source of power, acted in
its own interests, which usually, but not always, paralleled those of
the greater community. When it acted contrary to those interests,
the demands of labor should and would be repulsed.

The view of Lawrence during his early years as the consummate
politician, bereft of ideological principle, stems from his elevation
of party politics to the level of ideology. He had viewed firsthand the
debasement of the electoral process through the implementation of
one-party rule in Pittsburgh and Pennsylvania and concluded that the
two-party system was America's guarantee of a functioning democ-
racy. Only when both parties stood a reasonable chance of gaining
power would the diverse elements in society be heard. The competi-
tion between the parties, in his view, ensured a voice for all. Rather
than apologize for partisan politics, he held that it was the politician's
patriotic duty to bring all his powers to bear to win for his party a
seat in government. He later chided the Republicans in Pittsburgh
when they proved incapable of providing a reasonable challenge to
his own party.

The party of Wilson and Franklin Roosevelt represented the great
majority of American society and best understood its problems. In
nearly all cases the interests of the people, he believed, would be best
served by Democratic officeholders. Thus his greatest contribution
to society would be made by working toward that goal.

To the occasional consternation of his fellow Democrats, Law-
rence’s belief in partisan politics clearly did not rule out working with
the Republican opposition. His call for bipartisan cooperation was
particularly appropriate as he assumed leadership of the Earle govem-

109

xii <1 Preface

manded a more sophisticated mode of operation. David L. Lawrence
of Pittsburgh was one of the few political leaders able to make the
transition.

Born and raised in one of Pittsburgh's least desirable neighbor-
hoods, Lawrence had an early career typical of that of many upwardly
mobile Irishmen who used politics as a stepping-stone to power and
respectability. However, when faced with the demands of a statewide
office in 1935 and the unwanted mayorship in 194 5, he proved to be a
man with a broader vision and an innate sense of the operation of gov-
ernment and politics. His understanding of both enabled him to merge
them when practicable. Unlike many of his earlier counterparts, he
was also able to keep politics out of government, particularly when
the mixture threatened the progress of the city's urban renewal.

This study is an account of the career of a single urban leader,
whom this author admittedly came to admire during the five years
this effort was under way. Fully aware of the difliculty of serving two
masters, I hope that it proves instructive to both the professional and
the lay leader. Lawrence operated effectively in the local, state, and
national political and governmental arenas. His activities shed light
on American political behavior, particularly in an urban context. His
career between 1945 and 1958 provides important lessons in the im-
plementation of one of America's most successful urban renewal proj-
ects. But as a politician, Lawrence also operated on a personal level.
Driven by an ambition to raise his two loves, the Democratic party
and the city of Pittsburgh, from the doldrums in which he found them,
he used his powerful personality to interact with Pittsburghers from
every walk of life. From the resident on the street who illustrated
a more imagined than real kinship by referring to him as “Davey” as
well as the city's wealthiest resident, Lawrence elicited respect, co-
operation, and, from some, devotion. Even his political opponents,
who dwindled in number as his career progressed, grudgingly admit-
ted that his tenure in office had benefited the city.

An intensely private man operating on a public stage, Lawrence
provided no easy access for his biographer. He wrote few letters, kept
no revealing diaries, and died before he was able to write his memoirs.
The existing correspondence, including the voluminous govemor’s
papers, are primarily short notes in response to queries from constitu-
ents or political or governmental officials, which afford little insight
into the personality of the man. The paucity of such data presented
me with the alternatives of abandoning the project or seeking other
sources in an attempt to supplement the material that did exist. The
significance of the man's career in terms of longevity, influence at

110 <l Don’t call me boss

ment and relegated the slightly talented governor to the role of cheer-
leader for administration programs. The party controlled the State
House of Representatives as well as the chief executive's office. The
recent election, unfortunately, left Republicans in control of the
State Senate, the state treasurer’s and auditor general’s offices, and
the Pennsylvania Supreme Court. Delivering the promised Little New
Deal to hopeful Democratic supporters would require Lawrence's
greatest negotiating skills. He had succeeded in cooperating with the
Republican party when he represented the emasculated minority.
The success of his legislative program depended upon whether he
could persuade the GOP to follow his old policy.

The Republican majority in the Senate, however, signaled that
it had no intention of cooperating with the new administration. Im-
mediately after assembling in Ianuary I93 5, the Senate passed a pro-
cedure rule requiring the assent of the full majority (twenty-six votes)
before a bill could be released from committee. The Democrats, with
only nineteen of fifty members, were powerless to act without the
cooperation of nearly one—fourth of the Republican side, a defection
they could not realistically expect.

Throughout the four years of the Earle administration, Lawrence
single-mindedly nurtured the House and Senate Democrats. In addi-
tion to presiding over the party caucuses, he met privately with the
legislators, nearly all of whom were participating in lawmaking for
the first time. On evenings following late caucus sessions, he would
hold court with young Democrats at the Elks Club, or at one of sev-
eral local saloons frequented by House and Senate members. Most
often, the group would adjourn from the caucus to Davenport's, an
all-night restaurant on Market Street, a few blocks from the capitol.
These sessions often lasted well past midnight, at which point Law-
rence would collar one or two of the lingering representatives to join
him on a walk home along a meandering path, often along the bank
of the Susqueharma River. Lawrence would make the last points be-
fore dismissing the group for the evening in the lobby of the Penn
Harris Hotel.

Not content with coaching the Democratic legislators in caucus
and at numerous informal sessions, Lawrence attended nearly every
House and Senate session, thus keeping potential strays in line.
However, it served another purpose. The Democrats who arrived in
Harrisburg in the mid thirties were almost painfully naive about the
legislative and the political processes. Lawrence, although a legisla-
tive rookie himself, was almost the only seasoned political execu-
tive among the group. Certainly the inexperienced governor, who

Exercising Power l>

knew few of his legislators and nothing about the legislative process,
was incapable of providing the leadership needed to pass the almost
revolutionary legislation promised by the Democratic platform of 1934.
The party chairman willingly guided his novice legislators every step
of the way, sitting at the side of the chamber, usually with a vacant
seat next to him for anyone who needed his advice.7

Lawrence's coaching evidently paid off, for every bill proposed
in the 193 5 session, even the most controversial, sailed through the
Democratic-controlled House. The Senate, however, proved unbreach-
able: the Republican majority, ironically led by Lawrence's associates
Iimmy Coyne and Frank I. Harris, beat back nearly every attempt at
passing the Democratic program.

V

Three legislative issues dominated the 193 5 session: taxes, a ”rip-
per” bill to remove Mayor William McNair from office, and a labor
reform bill consisting of eight distinct pieces of legislation. Lawrence
pushed all three through the House, but only on one could he gain
even a partial victory in the Senate.

The necessity of tax reform was particularly acute for two rea-
sons. The deficit Governor Pinchot left behind made it impossible
for the state to meet its fiscal obligations without additional reve-
nue. In September 1934 the treasury had fallen so low that the state
failed to meet its payments to local school systems. A special ses-
sion of the legislature borrowed $22 million to pay them and meet
other outstanding debts, and the Earle administration was obligated
to repay the loan. More seriously, the Pennsylvania Chamber of Com-
merce estimated that the state would need $326 million to meet its
1935-36 budget, while current tax sources would produce only $148
million——a shortfall of $178 million. To compound matters, Harry
Hopkins, federal emergency relief administrator, informed the gover-
nor that Washington would meet Pennsylvar1ia’s relief needs only until
I April. Thereafter the state would be required to contribute $5 million
per month——$I2o million over the two-year legislative session—to
keep the crucial relief funds flowing from the federal treasury.3 The
amount Hopkins demanded was included in the budget presented to
the legislature in 193 5, along with a $200 million package of new taxes
to support the entire program. The tax package, recommended by a
bipartisan blue-ribbon panel appointed by Earle in November, pre-
dictably hit hard at utilities, corporate income, capital stock exemp-
tions, and a variety of luxury items.

Lawrence's hand-holding, prodding, and occasionally applying the

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I12 <1 Don’t call me boss

whip proved successful in the Democratic-controlled House, which
passed nearly every piece of requested tax legislation by substantial
majorities. In pushing a major portion of the tax program through
the House, for example, Lawrence, Eddie Iones, the secretary of labor
and industry, and Harry Kalodner, secretary to Governor Earle, stood
in a comer of the chamber to observe the deliberations. Twice, when
threats of revolt appeared, Lawrence signaled Speaker Herbert Cohen,
who gaveled a short recess. The Democratic majority met in caucus
to hear Lawrence and the other leaders deliver new pep talks and then
rammed four tax bills through on a single day.9

In the Senate, however, while the nineteen-member Democratic
minority remained firm, neither Lawrence, operating behind the
scenes, nor the governor, delivering a series of ”little fireside chats”
on local radio stations across the state, could sway the Republican
majority. Republican State Chairman Harvey Taylor charged that the
Democratic tax package would start a ”spending spree that, if Repub-
licans would permit, would land Pennsylvania on the brink of bank-
ruptcy.” Declaring that $57 million would satisfy Hopkins’s demands,
Taylor's forces in the Senate whittled away at each part of the pack-
age. In April the Democratic leadership arranged to have Hopkins meet
with the entrenched state Republicans in Washington. By prearrange-
ment with Earle and Lawrence, Hopkins stood fast on his earlier posi-
tion. Five million dollars per month must be contributed by the state
or it would be cut off from federal relief funds, a fate met by more
than a dozen other states since 1933. The Republican leadership de-
parted the capital still convinced that Hopkins was blufling. They
refused to budge from their increasingly untenable position.1°

Lawrence, meanwhile, put pressure on several Republican sena-
tors to abandon their party. His old business partner Frank I. Har-
ris proved to be the key. A long-term, highly respected Republican
senator, Harris could be expected to pull a number of colleagues with
him if he could be induced to support the administration's program.
The two met several times during April. Lawrence, according to one
source, never appealed to Harris on the basis of their friendship and
long-standing partnership. He argued instead that the residents of Al-
legheny County and particularly Pittsburgh, unable to count on re-
lief from the erratic McNair administration, were desperate for the
state funds. The senator's mail, nearly all supporting the tax pack-
age, underscored Lawrence's argument. On 30 April Harris announced
to the Pittsburgh newspapers that he was willing to consider a com-
promise. He was joined two days later by Senator Harry Shapiro of
Philadelphia and five other Republicans, who met with Earle to in-

Exercising Power [>

form him they would support his ‘program for one year only. The
shocked Republican leadership denounced the ”tumcoats.” Lawrence
called their willingness to support the Democratic package ”an act
of true courage.” But he refused to gloat over the sudden victory and
cautioned members of the Democratic caucus to keep a low profile
in the days to come.“

During the next few weeks Lawrence met with the Republican
leadership to work out a compromise. Republicans were adamant that
they could support only a limited tax package, while Lawrence in-
sisted that any compromise had to represent some attempts at a fairer
distribution of the tax burden. Within a short time they agreed to
initiate a 6 percent tax on corporate incomes, a 6 mill increase in the
tax paid by utilities, and increases in the taxes on gasoline, cigarettes,
and amusements. They also agreed on repeal of the exemption per-
mitted manufacturers on capital stock. The entire package flew
through the House, and all but two minor provisions were accepted
by the Senate.” The victory, although gratifying to Lawrence, was
unfortunately only partial. The new package would pay the state's
share of relief demanded by Hopkins, but only for one year. Further-
more, it provided only half of the total funds the governor had re-
quested for I935—36.

It was, however, the only significant victory the governor and the
secretary of the Commonwealth were to enjoy that year. Bills to re-
vise the antiquated state constitution, to permit state agencies to par-
ticipate in various federal relief and public works programs, and an
additional revenue program requested by the governor all ran aground
in the Senate. In each case the Lawrence-dominated House provided
a full majority to the administration.”

The difficulties the administration encountered in passing the tax
bill presaged events of the 193 5 session. Attempting to fulfill the Demo-
cratic commitment to organized labor, Earle unveiled an eight-part
legislative package to the General Assembly on 28 Ianuary. The revo-
lutionary program created by Lawrence, Lieutenant Governor Thomas
Kennedy, and the new secretary of labor and industry, Ralph Bashore,
called for:

I. a minimum employable age of sixteen (raised from fourteen)
and a maximum work week of forty hours for those under
eighteen,

2. regulation of industrial homework (sweatshops) ;

penalties for nonpayment of wages;

4. annual registration of industrial establishments;

L.)J

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1l4 <1 Don't call me boss

5. reduction of the maximum hours per week for female laborers
from fifty-four to forty;

6. an agency to establish a minimum wage for women and
children;

7. abolition of the industrial (coal and iron) police;

8. prohibition of compensation to municipal police or deputy
sheriffs by private or corporate interests.”

Lawrence hailed his own program as an ”emancipation proclama-
tion” for the state's workers, while the Republican leadership, who,
the governor noted in his address, had made similar ”pledges for a
square deal for labor” in its own platform, criticized it as unworkable
and unenforceable. Taylor, whose own lengthy career paralleled that
of Lawrence, tried to postpone the matter by calling for the creation
of a labor study commission.

The four key Democratic supporters of the legislation—Govemor
Earle, Lieutenant Governor Kennedy, Lawrence, and Bashore ——worked
hard to get the program through the General Assembly. Earle, acting
as the public spokesman, again took to the radio, seeking support from
voters across the state. Vehemently attacking the Republican opposi-
tion, he urged his listeners to flood the capital with letters support-
ing the legislative package. He also delivered appeals on behalf of sev-
eral pieces of legislation on the floor of the State Senate. Lawrence,
although he made several trips into key labor areas to encourage work-
ers to demand favorable action from Republican senators, confined
most of his activities to working through the Democratic caucuses
of both houses. He also met privately with key Republican senators,
particularly those from the industrial strongholds of Philadelphia,
westem Pennsylvania, and the hard coal region in Scranton and Wilkes-
Barre. Lieutenant Governor Kennedy and Bashore, both former union
ofiicials, worked through the labor organizations to bring pressure to
bear on the opposition Republicans. Their efforts produced almost
no positive results. The Democratic House, as before, delivered a ma-
jority for each piece of legislation. The Republican-controlled Senate,
however, effectively killed all but one of the bills. The first four bills
listed above never emerged from committee,thanks to the rule requir-
ing a majority of the entire Senate to place a bill on the floor. The
proposals to regulate female labor reached the floor, but the commit-
tee had so weakened them that the administration rejected both. The
wide differences between the House and Senate versions prevented
a compromise, and the two bills died in the Senate.

The administration's only success on the entire package, the abo-

Exercising Power l>

lition of the hated coal and iron police, was made moot by the failure
to prohibit employers from paying the salaries of local law enforce-
mentofficials. Police and deputy sheriffs, supported by company trea-
suries, could continue to play an aggressive antilabor role in labor-
management disputes.

The defeat of virtually the entire labor package was a bitter pill
for Lawrence to swallow. While he had never been an uncritical sup-
porter of organized labor, the legislative program represented the cul-
mination of lifelong struggles by both his father and Billy Brennen.
It was his gift to them both and he had failed. Friends later attested
that they had never before seen him so depressed. Fortunately, he
would have a second chance in the 1937 session. The Democrats in
the interim, however, had to capture control of the State Senate.

Equally difficult for Lawrence to accept was the defeat, again at
the hands of the Republican Senate, of his attempt to remove William
McNair from the mayor's office in Pittsburgh. The jousting between
McNair and the Democratic organization in the city continued un-
abated throughout the mayor's first year in office. The immovable
single tax advocate blocked all but three of Lawrence's appointments
to crucial city positions. He also bypassed the organization's patron-
age committee in the matter of appointing to city jobs members of
minority groups who had supported his candidacy. Black and Italian
leaders complained to Lawrence that they failed to receive their share
of patronage positions, but the state chairman was powerless to do
anything about it. McN air added to the insult when he armounced
his intention in early 1934 to run against the organization choice for
governor. In Iune, following his defeat in the gubernatorial primary,
he twisted the knife when he armounced he would support the Re-
publican victor, Ralph Schnader. A few months later, he urged all city
workers to do the same. The mayor further galled the organization
forces when, before embarking on a one-month European cruise, he
named his public works director, Leslie Iohnston, as acting mayor,
thereby turning the city over to the head of the anti-Lawrence Citi-
zens’ League. The Democratic party, except for the offices of city so-
licitor and city treasurer held by Comelieus Scully and Iimmy Kirk
respectively, was totally shut out of city hall. McNair promptly fired
Scully upon his retum.15

Lawrence effectively shielded his anger from the public, but in-
side he was seething. In a series of meetings held at Democratic
headquarters, it was decided that the situation could no longer be tol-
erated. Of crucial significance was the method to be chosen for the
exorcism. Three avenues appeared available: impeachment; a plan

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116 <1 Don't call me boss

whereby the legislature would strip the mayor of most of his execu-
tive powers ; or a ripper bill, which would eliminate the office of mayor
and replace it with that of a city commissioner. The first two were
ruled out because they made the president of city council, Republi-
can Robert Garland, acting mayor until a special election could be
held. (Although the Democrats won five council seats in the 1933 elec-
tion, the GOP retained a majority by virtue of former Republican
Mayor William Magee’s victory on both tickets. Magee joined the four
Republican holdovers in selecting Garland for the president's post.)
Thus they would, in effect, return the city to Republican rule, deny-
ing the Democrats their hard-eamed victory. In early I93 5, when the
issue came to a full boil, the Senate Republicans made known their
support for impeachment, but the Democratic leadership decided to
choose another path. They preferred an uncontrollable McNair in of-
fice to giving the city back to the opposition they worked so hard
to unseat.“

The method that MCN air himself had predicted, a ripper bill, ap-
peared to have at least a long shot chance of moving through the Re-
publican Senate. Also, it was preferred because the governor selected
the interim city commissioner to replace the ripped-out mayor, and
Earle was sure to select a Democrat of Lawrence's choosing. The rip-
per was a tested, if not honored, method in Pittsburgh. In 1902, for
example, Mayor William I. Diehl was ripped from office by the Flinn-
Magee machine, and two lesser ofificials were similarly removed by
the Coyne regime during the early 1920s. It is not clear that the Demo-
cratic leadership actually decided to push for a ripper bill during their
discussions of late 1934. Certainly their preoccupation with winning
the state elections prevented any action, and it appears uncertain that
public reaction to McN air would have supported any attempt to re-
move him from office. But if they were willing to wait, he would give
them a reason. Shortly after the New Year the mayor fulfilled their
expectations by precipitating a crisis that generated the needed pub-
lic support.

On 11 Ianuary I93 5 McNair initiated a series of sudden firings
that, while purging the city payroll of suspected organization sup-
porters, destroyed his own credibility with the public. With no ap-
parent provocation, the fire chief, civil service commissioner, asses-
sor, and zoning board chairman were relieved of their duties. When
asked to explain, the mayor responded, ”I don't know. It's around
the first of the year. Isn't that reason enough? Anyway, I wanted to
make some changes.” Several weeks later he fired the city court clerk,
Evan Thomas. ”He’s had the job twenty-eight years. Wasn't that long

Exercising Power [>

enough? A man oughtn’t to mind losing a job he's held that long/'17

The main event in the mayor's firing spree actually began just
before the New Year when he ordered the public safety director, Mar-
shall Bell, on a thirty-day ”economy furlough” and appointed himself
acting head of the fire and police departments. Three weeks later,
again for no apparent reason, he announced the firing of his furloughed
director and the appointment of the fourth director in twelve months.
This touched off a furor among officials of both parties and in the
city's newspapers. The Pittsburgh Press, a former McNair supporter,
ran a front-page editorial headlined, ”It’s Time to Get Rid of Mc-
Nair,” in which Edward Leech offered a plea for impeachment but
conceded, ”T he situation . . . is so serious that we believe a ‘ripper
bill’ would be welcomed by a majority of the people of Pittsburgh if
it is the only way or the quickest way of ending the cruelties, the
clowning and the general mismanagement of the present mayor.”
After chronicling a long list of abuses, the Press concluded, ”T he time
for drastic action—impeachment or ripper—has arrived. The sooner
the better/'13

Lawrence interrupted his work with the General Assembly to re-
turn to Pittsburgh. On 5 February, at several hastily arranged meet-
ings with Michael Benedum, Kirk, and the Democratic members of
city council, it was decided that the time was ripe for a ripper.

Upon his return to Harrisburg, Lawrence— armed with dozens of
letters and petitions from such groups as the ”Polish and Slavish Citi-
zens of the Fourth Ward,” the ”One Thousand Citizens Assembled
in the Irene Kaufmann Settlement,” and the ”Taxpayers of the City
of Pittsburgh”—began his campaign to remove his two-year embar-
rassment from public office. In an initial caucus held in mid February,
twenty-four of Allegheny County's twenty-five Democratic legisla-
tors supported a ripper bill to be introduced on the following Tuesday.
Only Al Tronzo, a former McNair clerk, was opposed. With such solid
support from the ”home team,” gaining backing of the other Demo-
crats in the House appeared relatively easy. When intense pressure
from McNair followers and Republican opponents threatened to erode
the Democratic support, Lawrence held a second party caucus. He
indicated that he felt responsible in part for Mr. McNair’s election,
regretted it, and therefore felt obligated to correct the situation. The
roar of approval from the Democratic group left little doubt of the
bill's outcome. On 6 March, with Lawrence pacing the side aisle ob-
serving the proceedings, the House voted to replace the mayor of Pitts-
burgh with a city commissioner to be appointed by the governor. The
courageous Tronzo was one of only two Democrats opposing the bill.

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118 <1 Don't call me boss

”T his is a vicious piece of legislation for the express purpose of rip-
ping from ofl-ice a public official elected by the people and placing
instead a rubber stamp appointed by the Governor.” While his plea
had no effect, it provided ammunition for the bitter Senate battle that
lay ahead.19

The Republican Senate, since convening in Ianuary, had estab-
lished an unwritten practice of following the wishes of any senator
when a bill affected that individual’s district alone. In the case of
the ripper, the lone Republican from Pittsburgh, Coyne, stood vehe-
mently against the bill. More ominously, he sat on the Senate Mu-
nicipal Government Committee, which controlled the bill and could
prevent it from being reported to the floor. Lawrence's old ally real-
ized that the only way he could regain control of the city was through
an impeachment proceeding. Barring that, he naturally preferred the
anti-organization McNair to a commissioner handpicked by Lawrence.
Lawrence fully understood and anticipated Coyne’s position, but he
had little choice. He would be forced to rely on his own skills as a
negotiator to attempt to swing members of Coyne’s committee to the
anti-McNair side. The challenge appeared formidable indeed.

For the next three months the committee sat on the ripper issue,
apparently unable to decide how to handle the hot potato. A public
hearing had indicated strong proripper support from a wide variety
of sources, and the Democratic administration armounced that it had
the votes to pass a ripper if it could pry the measure out of commit-
tee. McNair, meanwhile, continued to make a farce of the whole situa-
tion. At one point he declared that he would resign if the ripper reached
the floor of the Senate; at the same time he moved his bed into his
office and said he would eat and sleep there to prevent a newly ap-
pointed city commissioner from occupying it.

Neither of McNair’s contradictory actions was necessary, for the
Senate Committee on Municipal Government, not surprisingly, voted
on three separate occasions to keep the bill in committee. Lawrence
applied every pressure at his disposal to dislodge it. The governor and
five cabinet heads, including Lawrence, lobbied committee members
to move it to the floor. ”They were in better attendance than some
of the Senators,” Al Tronzo testified at a Senate hearing investigating
charges of illegal activities, primarily by Lawrence, in the attempted
ripper.2° Three Republican senators testified that Lawrence offered
jobs and appointments as a quid pro quo. Several House members ad-
mitted being pressured by Lawrence, but all stated that he offered
them nothing in return for a proripper vote.

Lawrence was not invited to testify but responded to the charges.

Exercising Power l>

”I specifically and emphatically give the lie to the testimony of Sena-
tors Grafl and Chapman,” he told reporters at a news conference. ”I
never offered favors or patronage for the vote of any Senator or Repre-
sentative. If these Republican Senators were of the opinion that I
offered them such illicit consideration, it was their duty to report
the matter immediately . . . instead of many months later/'21 It is im-
possible to determine the validity of the charges, but one might rea-
sonably infer that they were without substance. The investigating
subcommittee, all Republicans, postponed the hearings after two
days of testimony. They were never resumed, nor did the committee
call for a formal grand jury investigation, the normal procedure when
incriminating evidence has been presented.

V

Lawrence's failure to implement the Democratic program and to
rid himself and Pittsburgh of the intolerable McNair left him with
one inescapable conclusion. The party had to gain control of the State
Senate in the 1936 election, and the prospects seemed good. Twenty-
two of the twenty-five contested seats were in Republican hands,
while the Democrats retained sixteen holdover seats. Thus the party
had to win only ten more to gain a majority. David Lawrence, pre-
dicting a close race, expected to win eleven seats and lose ten, and
he considered four "up for grabs.”22 The Republicans’ opposition to
the popular social legislation package made them particularly vul-
nerable in the large industrial districts, which, excepting Pittsburgh,
had remained loyal to the Grand Old Party. Voter registration figures
for early 1936, moreover, warned of an impending shift. Nearly 375,000
voters joined the Democratic party in 1936, while the Republicans
added only 30,000. In the four years since Roosevelt lost a close race
in Pennsylvania, the Republican registration edge had decreased by
1.4 million voters.

The 1936 Democratic National Convention, held in Philadelphia,
cast a spotlight on the state's party leaders, Guffey, Earle, and Law-
rence. All were given prominent roles, and the relationship between
the three and President Roosevelt was emphasized over and over.
Newspapers began to speculate that Earle was a likely U.S. Senate
candidate in 1938 and a strong presidential possibility two years after.
Lawrence was mentioned as the potential gubernatorial candidate.

The entire state Democratic team bamstormed Pennsylvania
during the fall of 1936. "W e had this Roosevelt Caravan thing going,”
one campaigner recalled years later. ”We would pick up all the local
candidates . . . and form this caravan to all places where people

119

Preface l> xiii

the municipal, state, and national levels, and his success in provid-
ing a model for implementing massive urban renewal made the first
alternative unacceptable. Fortunately a large amount of data existed
and could be supplemented with oral testimony that, in part, over-
came the absence of written materials.

Over the course of his career, Lawrence consented to several
lengthy and detailed interviews that provide considerable informa-
tion regarding his motivations in arriving at key decisions or adopt-
ing particular positions. An oral history project sponsored by the Buhl
Foundation on the Pittsburgh Renaissance produced ninety-five in-
terviews with contemporaries of Lawrence. These works supply im-
portant information on the thirteen-year redevelopment project. Six-
teen interviews focusing exclusively on the building of Point Park
were conducted by Robert C. Alberts for his study of that urban re-
newal project. In addition, Father Thomas Donaghy generously made
available his collection of thirty-seven interviews, all conducted in
the early 1970s. The Donaghy interviews, held at La Salle College in
Philadelphia, probed deeply into Lawrence's public and private life.
Other, more scattered interviews exist at the Columbia University
Oral History Collection and the Truman Library. Finally, I conducted
an additional eighty interviews with friends, relatives, political con-
temporaries—both allies and opponents——governmental officials, and
urban professionals. The resulting data, often on the same subject,
permitted verification as well as offering insight into nuances and
often the motivation and personality of David Lawrence. Other im-
portant sources included the city's three newspapers — read for the en-
tire period of Lawrence's career—several extensive collections of
Lawrence speeches, the minute books of the Allegheny Conference
on Community Development, the Pittsburgh Urban Redevelopment
Authority, Pittsburgh City Council, several grand jury and court trial
proceedings, numerous committee reports, the papers of Senator Io-
seph Guffey, archival materals in the libraries of four U.S. Presidents,
and, of course, a wide variety of published and unpublished works.
The materials are not a suitable replacement for a detailed and in-
trospective diary or a lengthy series of letters to and from a loved one
or a political acquaintance. Thus not all questions are perused, and
the historical record remains incomplete. Many of the intimate de-
tails of Lawrence's life remain a mystery. The existing materials, how-
ever, do permit one to examine many of the issues surrounding him.
The analysis here attempts to deal with a variety of complex issues
in a logical and reasonable manner while presenting an accurate por-
trayal of the fascinating career of David L. Lawrence.

120 <1 Don't call me boss

wouldn't get to a political rally. . . . We would speak in the public
squares of larger cities, a mine entrance, a factory gate, a general store,
any place where you could draw a crowd, and we had a built in crowd
with us, . . . going from place to place/'23

Roosevelt underscored the importance of the election outcome
in the Keystone State by joining the caravan during the month of Oc-
tober. He also returned to the site of his earlier triumph by making
a major address before a standing-room-only crowd at Pittsburgh's
Forbes Field on 2 October. In every address he emphasized the impor-
tance of voting the party ticket at the state as well as national level.

Roosevelt's broad coattails, the persistent economic difiiculties
in Pennsylvania, and the Republican Senate's intransigency over re-
lief measures resulted in a statewide landslide of historic proportions.
Roosevelt captured the state by an astounding 6oo,ooo votes, while
the crucial State Senate changed hands for the first time in two-thirds
of a century. Eighteen of the contested Senate seats went to the Demo-
cratic party, creating a voting edge of more than two to one. Coyne
was defeated by more than three to one, along with Lawrence's busi-
ness partner, Frank I. Harris, and thus the last vestiges of the Pitts-
burgh Republican machine were removed from power. The Demo-
cratic margin in the House, in addition, was I 54 to 54. Roosevelt won
in forty-one of the state's counties and captured every major munici-
pality including the cities of Lancaster, Reading, Altoona, Iohnstown,
Meadville, Scranton, Wilkes-Barre, Erie, Pittsburgh, and Philadelphia.
Lawrence's hometown gave the president every ward and a 190,000-
vote margin of victory. Even more impressively, the Republican
stronghold of Philadelphia provided a 21o,ooo-vote majority, including
all the black and Italian wards, to Roosevelt.“

Lawrence, Earle, and Guffey, were ecstatic. Lawrence stopped just
short of proclaiming a total victory in the coming legislative session.
”VVith Democratic control of the Senate, the people of Pennsylvania
can rest assured that legislation in their interest can no longer be
blocked by reactionary influences.”25 The pace with which they swung
into action after the election gave a clear indication of events to come.
Not content to wait until the traditional Ianuary date to open the
legislative session, Earle called a special session to begin on I Decem-
ber. Within four days the House and Senate passed identical bills
granting a substantial increase in relief funds to all eligible persons.
The governor signed the bill into law on 5 December. Lawrence's spe-
cial skills in guiding bills through committee and the legislature would
be needed from time to time during the 1937 session, but the task was
greatly simplified.

Exercising Power l>

When it reassembled in Ianuary, the governor reminded the Gen-
eral Assembly of the opportunity at hand. ”Our progress in many di-
rections has been retarded by partisan opposition. We have had to
wait until this moment for fulfillment of many solemn pledges. . . .
We advance to meet the many fundamental problems left untouched
by our predecessors.” The governor outlined all the programs not
passed by the previous legislature and a score more, including such
measures as the breakup of the company town and company store,
slum clearance and public housing, reform of the Philadelphia court
system, recodification of the state's criminal laws, reform of the prison
system, and the enactment of a statewide graduated income tax. The
mandate of the Pennsylvania electorate demanded nothing less than
enactment of the entire progressive program.26 For the next five
months the most liberal legislation ever presented in Pennsylvania
sped through the two houses. Only 6 of 371 bills introduced by the
administration failed to reach the govemor’s desk.

Lawrence maintained the same role he had assumed during the
previous session, but his duty was now more one of educator and task-
master than lobbyist. Each evening, Sunday through Thursday, the
Democratic House and Senate caucus met to hear an outline of the
next day's agenda. Bills were explained and small differences ironed
out. Lawrence nearly always presided, but often the principal cabinet
members, labor leaders, or other interested persons were present to
speak. Matters on which considerable controversy ensued were post-
poned until additional support could be guaranteed, but this tactic
proved hardly necessary. Bills carrying administration backing were
submitted to the House or Senate in bright pink covers so that leg-
islators could make no mistake about their origin. To ensure the com-
pletion of the entire legislative package, Lawrence, his new Speaker
of the House, Roy Furman, and the Senate majority leader, Harvey
Huffman, often kept the General Assembly on a twelve- to fourteen-
hour work day. Occasionally it would begin early in the morning and
deliberations would stretch well beyond midnight.”

The Little New Deal, like the national one from which it evolved,
had a major impact on life in Pennsylvania. The exhaustive list of
legislation, which ranged from funds for public orphanages to ceme-
tery regulations, covered nearly every aspect of life from the cradle
to the grave. Organized labor received its long-awaited reward for its
conversion to the Democratic party in a comprehensive series of laws
including a ”Little Wagner Act” protecting the ”right of employees to
organize and bargain collectively . . . free from the interference, re-
straint or coercion of their employers.” To administer the law, the

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Pennsylvania Labor Relations Board of three members was created.
Other features of the labor legislation proposed but not passed in 193 5,
such as a minimum wage law for women and children, the regula-
tion of homework, and the outlawing of company-paid deputy sheriffs,
also moved through the legislature with little opposition. A Working-
men’s Compensation Act covering workers suffering occupational dis-
eases as well as job related injuries exceeded even the expectations
of organized labor in its liberal provisions. Occasionally, the admin-
istration became too liberal for its own legislative body, as was the
case when it proposed a thirty-five hour work week as the standard
throughout the state. Lawmakers arguing that the bill would drive
industry out of the state managed to restore the 193 5 goal of forty-four
hours, then promptly passed the controversial bill. Other important
labor legislation requested by the administration and passed into law
included a teacher tenure provision and a railroad ”ful1 crew” bill,
which required that trains of four or fewer cars carry a minimum of
four men and that longer trains carry additional crew. Senator Guffey
objected to the latter bill, thus giving a hint of the later split that
was to occur between him and Lawrence. The House and Senate,
however, responding to pressure from Lawrence, passed the bill, which
was later declared unconstitutional by the State Supreme Court.”

The reform mood of the administration and the legislature did
not stop with organized labor. The liberal-minded group hacked away
at privilege in all directions. The ability of public utilities, operat-
ing as monoplies granted by the state legislature, to gouge the public
through excessive rates was severly curtailed by the establishment
of the Public Utilities Commission and new regulatory legislation.
Cutthroat competition by large commercial enterprises was made
more difficult by the Fair Trades Practices Act prohibiting sales at
less than cost prices. The administration adopted in total the report
by a commission headed by Herbert F. Goodrich, dean of the School
of Law of the University of Pennsylvania, which recommended a
sweeping revision of the state's system of public assistance. The 374
local poor boards ”were havens of corruption and patronage and their
practices often degraded the poor.” A ripper bill replaced the boards
with the state Department of Public Assistance and provided fund-
ing for the next several years. Other administration-backed legisla-
tion included four slum clearance and public housing bills, revision
of banking laws to control loan sharking and other unfair practices,
a milk control act, regulations prohibiting stream pollution, and au-
thorization for an industrial home for boys, a new state tuberculosis
hospital, and the start of a two-hundred-mile turnpike from Pitts-

Exercising Power l>

burgh to Harrisburg, the first of its kind in the nation. To support
the comprehensive package, the legislature passed a series of tax mea-
sures and called for a constitutional amendment permitting the im-
position of a graduated personal income tax, a measure rejected by
the voters in the subsequent election.”

To be sure, not all legislation was altruistic. The Democratic
party, in power for the first time in the century, seized the opportu-
nity to enhance its position. An election law making registration per-
manent for all voters was publicized as a measure to prevent parties
from illegally dominating elections by purchasing registration receipts.
In reality, however, it helped the Democrats retain their newly won
strength by normalizing the status quo. Similarly, the creation of a
legislative commission to reorganize the courts and various munici-
pal functions in Philadelphia was a thinly veiled attempt to punc-
ture Republican control in the City of Brotherly Love. Reapportion-
ment of Senate and House districts, while long overdue, created a
number of safe Democratic districts and, more important, threw ad-
ditional power to the now solidly Democratic cities.” All three bills,
as well as the dramatic social legislation, Lawrence expected, would
serve the party well in its reelection bid in 1938. The ambitions of
Charles I. Margiotti, unfortunately, upset his well-laid plans.

The 1937 legislative session produced a contagious atmosphere
of liberal thought and innovation for the administration as well as
for the Democratic legislators. What began as an attempt to emulate
the Roosevelt program on a state level proved on a number of occa-
sions to be more far-reaching than its parent. The generous working-
men's compensation provisions and the harsh penalties imposed on
violations of the ”Little Wagner Act,” to cite two examples, reflect
the adventurous attitude of the General Assembly. Liberals and po-
tential reformers, attracted by the possibility of a party victory in
1936, became active in Democratic affairs and offered themselves as
candidates for legislative office. The freshman legistators arriving in
Harrisburg in Ianuary 1937 often proved to be more liberal than their
counterparts who preceded them two years earlier. In addition to
supporting the administration's program, they offered their own bills,
including such innovative measures as the abolition of capital pun-
ishment and legalization of pari-mutuel betting.“ While most of these
failed, their scope and breadth demonstrate the extraordinary vision
of the members of the 1937 General Assembly.

Lawrence, too, was affected by the atmoshere he helped create.
Upon his arrival in Harrisburg in January 193 5, he espoused the gen-
eral policies of the New Deal and the cause of organized labor, but

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124 <1 Don’t call me boss

he held no clear social or political philosophy. A pragmatic policy-
whatever worked to solve the problem at hand—and the desire to
win elections appeared to satisfy him. But his battle to push the
Democratic program through the intransigent I93 5 Republican-
controlled Senate and his four-year role as adviser on virtually every
piece of legislation broadened his view. In addition, while acting as
educator and counselor to the Democratic legislators, whether in party
caucus, at Davenport's, on the floor of the House or Senate, or along
the Susquehanna River, he educated himself. The long nights, the
arguments and discussions, he later admitted, opened his eyes to a
number of problems and issues of which he had been previously un-
aware.3-°- Issues relating to health, education, the environment, high-
way safety, and the penal code all crossed his desk for the first time.
In addition, while he had worked politically with blacks and other
minority groups, he had never championed their causes, or those of
women and children, as enthusiastically as he did during his tenure
as secretary of the Commonwealth. Without abandoning his practi-
cal approach to politics and government, he adopted these concerns
as his own and worked tirelessly during the Earle administration to
implement measures related to them— something he would continue
to do for the rest of his public life.

Lawrence was understandably pleased with the accomplishments
of the 1937 legislative session. The completed package far exceeded
the promises of the 1934 Democratic platform, and though additional
programs remained to be implemented, he could with much satisfac-
tion call it ”the most constructive, liberal and humane [program] in
generations/'33 The entire Little New Deal was now law, and he could
look forward to the next election, which might elevate him into the
chair he had so successfully controlled from behind, that of governor
of the Commonwealth.

V

The only issue left unresolved from the 1935 legislative session,
William McNair, had actually resolved itself before the Democrats
returned to Harrisburg in control of both houses in 1937. Events spared
Lawrence the embarrassment of attempting a second ripper bill and
enabled him to gain control of the city of his youth. The behavior
of McN air grew more erratic and bizarre with each passing month.
On the one hand, many of his capers may be passed off as the frivo-
lous antics of a publicity-seeking bufioon. On the other, he subjected
thousands of people to unnecessary physical and economic hard-
ships. His suspicions of the Lawrence organization were clearly well

Exercising Power l>

founded, but they led him down a path that proved, in the short run,
disastrous for the people of Pittsburgh and for him.

After the unsuccessful attempt to remove him from office, the
mayor embarked on a month-long vacation, leaving the city relatively
quiet. Upon his return, however, scarcely a week went by without
an unusual McNair event. The press, much to his delight, provided
full coverage. During the latter part of October 193 5, for example, act-
ing as police magistrate, he attempted a series of one-man raids on
North Side gambling houses, which resulted in no arrests. Shortly
thereafter, for no apparent reason, he wrote to William Randolph
Hearst inviting him to ”come to Pittsburgh to live.” The publisher
did not reply, but McNair released the letter to the city's Hearst news-
paper, the Pittsburgh Sun Telegraph, which displayed it prominently.
On I 5 November he began a week-long stint as master of ceremonies
and sometime performer at the Alvin Theater. He apparently enjoyed
himself. His entry into the theatrical world touched off a series of
performances on the Rudy Vallee show, the Major Bowes Amateur
Hour, and his own amateur show, at which all city employees were
expected to perform. He used each occasion to play his fiddle, tell
jokes, expound on the benefits of the single tax, and attack the Earle
administration. He capped his activities on II Ianuary 1936 by declar-
ing vacant all but one of the nine city council seats because mem-
bers failed to attend an organization meeting he called. Nothing
came of the declaration, but the mayor, once again, received front-
page coverage.

When he couldn't generate press interest in his activities, he con-
tributed directly to newspapers. At one point he drew serial cartoons
for the Pittsburgh Sun Telegraph poking fun at himself and his politi-
cal opponents. One prophetic cartoon raised the question, ”What is
a mayor?” The answer given by the character drawn to resemble Mc-
Nair was ”A mayor is a person who is always firing someone.” On
another occasion he submitted to the same paper an editorial about
himself that, he complained, the paper had neglected to write. The
press played into his hands by dutifully printing it.34

None of these activities, while unusual for a city mayor, was in
itself detrimental to the continuing operation of the city. Certainly
New York Mayors Iimmy Walker and Fiorello H. La Guardia, among
others, were guilty of eccentric behavior from time to time. Of more
serious consequence were McNair’s continued tampering with the
office of the director of public safety and his refusal to release funds
from the WPA and other federal agencies to provide jobs and assis-
tance to the city indigent. McNair did not oppose federal assistance

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126 <1 Don't call me boss

on principle but took his vehement stand ”against projects controlled
by David Lawrence and Edward Iones,” appointed state WPA director
in 1936. McNair ”despaired in knowing that the hostile Democratic
organization would control relief and attempt to use it for political
purposes.” He publicized his objection to the nation in an article he
authored for the Saturday Evening Post. Attacking the president,
Lawrence, and Eddie ]ones, he characterized the WPA as a political
octopus. ”In the great state of Pennsylvania, in its capital at Harris-
burg sits the Works Progress Administrator. His job depends on his
political allegiance. This man appoints in every county in the state
a local Works Progress administrator whose job depends on his party
allegiance. Under this man is an army of staff workers selected and
appointed by the party political bosses, whose jobs depend upon their
political allegiance.”35 All available evidence indicates that McNair
described the operation of the WPA in Pennsylvania accurately. Unfor-
tunately, the poor of Pittsburgh were caught in the political cross fire.

In late I93 5, McNair withheld all federal assistance for four months
until the governor threatened to cut off all state relief funds to Pitts-
burgh. The mayor's action delayed twenty-five WPA projects and the
allocation of $40,000 appropriated by the city council for shoes and
clothing for needy schoolchildren. The govemor’s threat gave only
temporary relief from McNair’s obstructionist tactics. On another
occasion he rushed off to an Atlantic City vacation to avoid opening
bids for notes issued to fund the city’s share of the WPA expenditure.
The action blocked allocation of $25 million in project funds. On 19
February he refused to sign the appropriate documents to release re-
lief funds for medical care to more than thirty-one thousand individu-
als in the city. He again eventually relented, but he precipitated one
funding crisis after another during the first nine months of 1936.36

The fiasco of the McNair administration exploded on I October
1936, while Lawrence was introducing President Roosevelt, in the
city to deliver a major campaign address, to Democratic candidates
and party benefactors. McNair fired the only representative of the
Democratic organization in the city administration, the treasurer,
jimmy Kirk.

It is perhaps impossible to explain the firing. Although Kirk was
Lawrence's closest political associate, he and McNair had maintained
a cordial relationship. Indeed, Kirk was the only row officer to retain
his position during the mayor’s entire term of office. The publicity
surrounding the visit of Roosevelt, of course, may have touched off
the incident. The man with whom he had warred constantly in the
previous two years was being hailed by the press as a master politi-

Exercising Power l>

cian, the ”friend of the President.” McNair, on the other hand, had
not been invited to a reception for the President or to speak at the
Forbes Field rally. By firing Lawrence's closest aide on the very day
of Lawrence's triumph, the mayor perhaps wished to embarrass the
Democratic chairman, to demonstrate his own power to his politi-
cal enemy.

Of course, McNair’s past behavior gave ample evidence that he
was an inveterate publicity seeker. Lawrence and the president had
dominated the headlines for nearly a week, and it may be that the
mayor was simply attempting to reestablish his own position as the
premier newsmaker in his own city. Finally, one must at least con-
sider the possibility that McNair merely felt it was time to fire an-
other public official, and Kirk, who had escaped his previous firings,
was the logical choice. Whatever the motivation, the action threw
the city into crisis. The city council refused to confinn McNair’s des-
ignated replacement, and, without a treasurer to sign checks, the city
government ground to a halt. The matter dragged on for six days until,
in a pique, MCN air submitted a one-line letter of resignation to the
council, which immediately accepted it. When he attempted to with-
draw his resignation a few days later, he was informed by council
that it was too late; Cornelius Scully, the recently elected council
president and an organization man, had already been designated as
acting mayor.

The long turmoil had ended, and in Lawrence's mind, the city
of Pittsburgh had been returned to its rightful leaders, the Democratic
organization. He could hardly contain his jubilation when he wired
Roosevelt on the day of McNair’s resignation: ”Some more Roosevelt
luck, Mayor McNair resigned and Cornelius Scully sworn in to fill
vacancy by council/'37

Thus, on the heels of the successful and popular legislative ses-
sion of 1937, the installation of a statewide patronage system by Eddie
Iones, and the return of the city of Pittsburgh to party control, the
Democrats reasonably expected to extend their power in 1938. Earle
would move to Washington to replace Republican Senator Davis, a
step that would place him in an ideal position for the run for the
presidency in 1940. In addition, a Democratic candidate would cer-
tainly retain control of the govemor’s mansion; the only unanswered
question was the identity of that candidate.

127

128

1938-1940
The Empire Crumbles

State chairman Lawrence could look back with much satisfaction
as the 1937 legislative session closed. Under his direction the Demo-
cratic administration passed a sweeping program of economic and
social reform. Abuses of industrial and corporate wealth had been
curbed. Organized labor received its long-sought recognition and gov-
ernmental protection, and an effective attack on the poverty of the
Depression had begun. The state, furthermore, assumed greater re-
sponsibility in health care, education, citizen protection, and high-
way safety. The citizens of Pennsylvania would surely reward the
party's diligence and foresight in the upcoming elections.

The party organization appeared united and ready to wage a text-
book campaign. Lawrence successfully utilized the WPA program and
various state public works programs to put thousands of loyal Demo-
crats, and some ”deserving Republicans,” to work. They could certainly
be counted upon to show their gratitude by working in the campaign
and turning out the vote for the administration slate in the fall 1938
election. In January, Lawrence predicted a quiet primary and a land-
slide Democratic victory in the general election. 1 It was probably the
worst prediction of his political career.

Several issues emerged during the first four months of 1938 to
dampen Lawrence's optimism. First, the party’s adoption of organized
labor, and its acceptance of Thomas Kennedy, secretary-treasurer of
the United Mine Workers, as lieutenant governor in 1934, had pro-
duced immediate election results, but it also introduced a critical
divisive element. The Democratic party's unexpected entanglement
in the political ambitions of Iohn L. Lewis and in the power struggle
between the American Federation of Labor (AFL) and the Congress of
Industrial Organizations (CIO) were destined to create major election-

The Empire Crumbles [>

year difficulties. Second, it quickly became clear that the party's new
strength in Pennsylvania made its endorsement and subsequent nomi-
nation a desirable commodity. Liberal reformers saw it as a realistic
vehicle for a modified social order and rushed to join. The 1937 legis-
lative session merely whetted their appetite for what they consid-
ered progressive change. Aspiring, self-serving candidates, on the other
hand, viewed the party as an outlet for their ambition and an oppor-
tunity to further their own careers. The organization's control of the
enormous patronage machinery and the opportunity to benefit from
the contracts issued by the newly created General State Authority
made governmental service additionally attractive. Both these fac-
tors guaranteed a surplus of potential candidates interested in eco-
nomic entitlements or power brokering. The reform-minded and the
opportunists joined the career politicians to form a long line of can-
didates for virtually every contested ofiflce. A struggle for control,
while not inevitable, became a definite possibility.

Pennsylvania's constitution prohibited Governor George Earle
from succeeding himself, and all factions generally agreed that he de-
served the opportunity to run against incumbent Republican Iames
Davis for the U.S. Senate. Earle had received considerable publicity
as a potential presidential candidate for I940 and, with experience
as a state leader, might use the senatorship as a springboard to the
White House.

With quick agreement on Earle’s candidacy, speculation turned
to the govemorship. Fulfillment of the 1934 pledge by David Law-
rence and U.S. Senator Guffey to endorse Warren Van Dyke as Earle’s
replacement might have produced the desired harmony. Unfortu-
nately, Van Dyke suffered a stroke and lay critically ill in a hospital.
He died before the winter ended.

Lieutenant Governor Thomas Kennedy emerged as one substi-
tute. He had carried the labor standard in the 1934 election and had
the endorsement of Iohn L. Lewis, president of the CIO, who had made
it quite clear that his organization was interested in securing gover-
norships in key industrial states? The results of recent strikes in other
states had convinced him that successful labor action required sup-
portive govemors.3 Lewis ”nominated” Kennedy nearly a year early,
in the summer of 1937, intimating that he supported him for gover-
nor of Pennsylvania. The heavy labor support for the Gufiey-Earle
ticket in 1934 and a $40,000 loan to help the Democrats win control
of the State Senate in 1936 entitled him to select the next candidate.
But the Democratic State Committee resisted, and Lewis warned
that he might walk out on the party organization—either support-

129

xiv

<1 Preface

During the five years in which this work was in gestation, I be-
came indebted to a number of people. Colleagues offered encourage-
ment and helpful suggestions; associates of David Lawrence willingly
gave their time to respond to lengthy and probing interviews; foun-
dations provided needed funds; and a number of librarians and ar-
chivists went out of their way to find a lost document or manuscript.
Too many individuals contributed to this work to be thanked in-
dividually, but I am indebted to them and appreciate their efforts
nonetheless.

Several people, however, made major contributions, and their
mention here is my small way of expressing my gratitude. I was as-
sisted along the way by the efforts of a number of Camegie-Mellon
graduate students who conducted and transcribed interviews and se-
cured needed research materials. Tim Kelly, Wendy Rush, Iudy Botch,
and Mark Knapp gave excellent service. I sincerely appreciate their
contributions.

Every librarian and archivist whom I encountered demonstrated
the professionalism We have come to expect from those who labor
in this important but often unheralded field. Several in particular de-
serve special mention. Carol Stephan and Marie Zini, reference li-
brarians at the Carnegie Libraries of Pittsburgh, tolerated my often
unusual requests for information and refused to rest until they had
supplied the desired data. Marilyn Albright of the Camegie-Mellon
University Hunt Library and Frank Zabrosky of the Archives of the
Industrial Society were personally interested in the work and often
provided unsolicited infonnation or leads on valuable sources. Archi-
vist Roland Bauman made my frequent trips to the Pennsylvania His-
tory and Museum Commission pleasant and worthwhile. A former
colleague and head archivist at the Lyndon Baines Iohnson Library,
David Humphrey, first informed me of the valuable Lawrence data
in the Iohnson collection. He assisted in securing a travel grant,
guided me through the intricacies of the library, and opened his
home to me on my visit to Austin. He introduced me to new and
important information on Lawrence and to Texas ribs. For both I
am indebted.

I thank, too, the American Association for State and Local His-
tory and the National Endowment for the Humanities, and the Moody
Foundation of the Lyndon Baines Iohnson Library for important fi-
nancial support at opportune moments. Their generosity greatly aided
the completion of this project.

Colleagues with whom I discussed this work offered intellectual
stimulation and important ideas. In particular, Iohn Bodnar, Howard

130 <1 Don't call me boss

ing Kennedy as an independent or turning to the Republican candi-
date, Pinchot—if it did not yield to his demand.4 But Lewis and the
CIO were not the only labor powers that the party had to contend
with. William Green, president of the AFL, rejected Kennedy and
demanded a voice equal to that of Lewis in the Democratic slate-
making.5 The peaceful primary that Lawrence predicted appeared
more remote each day.

A second logical successor to Governor Earle was Lawrence him-
self. He had proved his ability to administer the state govenment dur-
ing the past four years and had generated considerable recognition,
if not popularity. An Earle-Lawrence ticket gave the east-west bal-
ance requisite for political victory in Pennsylvania. In addition, Law-
rence already had control of the party apparatus, as well as support
from prominent Democrats in Pittsburgh and Philadelphia. An en-
dorsement by the Democratic State Committee was assured should
he request it. In addition, a ”Lawrence for governor” boom, which de-
veloped early in the year, could not have grown so rapidly without
his acquiescence. Thus it seems clear that Lawrence was quietly en-
gineering his own nomination.

A third possible gubernatorial candidate was Guffey, though his
intentions were not immediately obvious—at first he vacillated in
his support between Kennedy and Lawrence. But Gufiey had seen
what a govemorship had done for Franklin Roosevelt, and he made
known his willingness to be selected as a compromise candidate.
When this did not happen, he made the offer explicitly, but the party
leadership showed no interest.6

Iust one week before the Democratic State Committee meeting
to endorse a slate, Lewis played his trump card in the form of an ul-
timatum to George Earle. The union leader would provide CIO sup-
port for Earle’s senatorial candidacy ”only on the condition that he
remain strictly neutral in the gubernatorial campaign/'7 The ultima-
tum wrecked Lawrence's chances for a united campaign. Without the
support of both Earle and Guffey, Lawrence could not expect a unani-
mous endorsement, and a primary fight between him and Kennedy
seemed certain. The party needed a quick solution that would remove
both from the scene and produce a new compromise candidate. Law-
rence, the master politician, supplied both answers.

Early in the year, Lawrence had conducted a private poll of party
leaders throughout the state. Most felt his religion to be detrimental
to his chances of winning the election.3 Lawrence's desire to become
governor initially overshadowed his religious fears and he withheld
the results of the poll until the day of Lewis's ultimatum. Speaking

The Empire Crumbles [>

to the party's executive committee, Lawrence withdrew from con-
tention. The move, while appearing to be prudent, placed a new road-
block in front of the CIO choice. The religious issue affected not
only Lawrence, but Thomas Kennedy, who was also Catholic.

At the party's executive committee meeting in Harrisburg on
18 February Lawrence named his new choice, Charles Alvin Iones,
Allegheny County solicitor. Actually Iones’s name had surfaced sev-
eral days earlier as a compromise candidate, and he already had the
support of Lawrence, McCloskey, and Kelly. He was, however, hardly
known, had only limited legal experience, and almost none as an ad-
ministrator. Yet he carried none of the liabilities of Lawrence or Ken-
nedy. He was sympathetic to both labor and the New Deal, but his
activities as solicitor kept him free of the labor or organization stamp.
Furthermore, he was a Protestant who had supported Al Smith in two
presidential campaigns.

Lawrence's selection of Jones showed a weakness that was obvi-
ous throughout his political career: an inability to identify politi-
cal candidates who could both win an election and lead in a position
of authority. McNair, Earle, Iones, and even Lawrence's choice to re-
place MCN air, Cornelius Scully, had almost no experience in govem-
ment, and none became a strong leader. Critics, of course, charged
that Lawrence selected docile puppets who would do his bidding
while in office, and in Earle’s case the accusation rings true. As a poli-
tician, however, he preferred to engineer elections and manage the
activities of the organization rather than meddle in the affairs of gov-
ernment. ”He became interested in the affairs of state govenment
when it became clear that Earle couldn't do the job,” a state official
close to the Earle administration noted.9 Lawrence's criteria for a can-
didate for elective office, unfortunately, often ran counter to those
necessary for strong leadership. He sought someone who could cre-
ate or maintain party hannony and win elections. They were often
popular, unassuming, and noncontroversial. They were also usually
unknown and exhibited no particular strengths that would qualify
them for leadership.

Iones, perhaps the least likely of all the Lawrence choices for pub-
lic office, nevertheless quickly gained the support of the committee.
Guffey, the only member strongly opposed to Iones, startled every-
one by jumping from his chair and declaring, ”I am a candidate for
Governor come hell or high water.” After a heated exchange with
Lawrence, Guffey stormed out under a shower of boos and catcalls,
only to return a short time later, once he realized that he needed the
party more than it needed him. ”Gentlemen, I have reconsidered,”

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132 <1 Don't call me boss

he announced, swallowing a large bite of crow before the assembled
group. ”I am not going to be a candidate. . . . I shall give my whole-
hearted support to the slate endorsed at this conference/'10 Lawrence,
it appeared, had won total victory, but the triumph would not last.

At the slating meeting on 25 February, the Democratic State Com-
mittee endorsed Earle and Iones as its candidates. Guffey repeated
his earlier pledge of support and held out the olive branch to Law-
rence. ”A good deal has been said in the newspapers about a quarrel
between Davy Lawrence and myself. . . . If there ever is a separation
between us, it will take place only at the grave. . . . You will find Ioe
Guf-fey fighting in the front line trenches after the convention and
after the primary/'11 Guffey, true to his word, fought on the front
line during the primary—but he neglected to tell the committee in
which direction his guns would be aimed.

Kennedy informed the press on 9 March that he too was a can-
didate for the Democratic nomination. Guffey, ignoring his ”grave-
side pledge,” announced his support of Kennedy on 11 March. The depth
of GuHey’s bitterness toward Lawrence, however, did not become clear
until 13 April, when, in a speech at the Philadelphia Academy of
Music, he hinted that serious corruption existed in the Earle admin-
istration. ‘Here is something for you folks to think about,” Guffey
told a shocked Democratic audience. ”A good many years ago we had
the infamous Capitol graft scandal. Five suicides and nine jail sen-
tences resulted from that mess. What the outcome of the present
[gravel] contract situation will be I don't know. But don't forget the
oldtime Capitol graft scandal/'12 The simple statement that Gufiey
inserted into his prepared speech that evening, and he later charac-
terized as mere politics, touched off a chain of events that nearly de-
stroyed the career of David Lawrence.

The political world that Lawrence and his estranged colleague,
Ioseph Guffey, had so carefully built was falling apart, and the party
chairman was deeply troubled. The primary battle he had struggled
so desperately to avoid promised to be brutal. The long-term remedy,
however, seemed obvious. ”We need a clear cut victory in the pri-
mary,” Lawrence told a gathering of party regulars in Harrisburg.
”Those who have temporarily left us will return in a wink when the
May 17 returns come in. . . . I urge you and the workers in your dis-
trict to get out and work as if the future of the party depended on
it.” While Lawrence's statement was similar to those he delivered to
party workers throughout his career, in this case the declaration rang
true, and his efforts for the remainder of the primary campaign re-
flected his concern. ”He traveled everywhere,” Wilkes-Barre Demo-

The Empire Crumbles l>

crat Iames Law recalled. ”He wouldn't neglect anything. . . . In fact
I would often wonder how he could do it all and take care of his
family.” As in nearly every crisis he faced, he considered hard work,
doubling or tripling one’s efforts, to be the most effective remedy.”

V

Attorney General Charles Margiotti compounded the already
difficult situation by initiating a campaign of his own for the Demo-
cratic nomination for governor. Calling for ”fair play for industry,”
he stumped the state criticizing the Democratic organization that
had welcomed him in 1934. ”I am submitting my candidacy directly
to the people and not to the political bosses,” Margiotti armounced
in a statewide radio address, ignoring the fact that his own state cabi-
net position had depended upon the intervention of ”boss” Lawrence.
”The people of Pennsylvania are through with boss rule regardless
of party. . . . Iust as surely as night follows day so do corruption and
graft follow the concentration of power in the hands of political
bosses. Political bosses must keep hands off primaries/'14 Margiotti’s
reference to bosses was aimed directly at Lawrence, who had earlier
vetoed the attorney general’s suggestion that he receive the party en-
dorsement for the chief executive's office.

Party officials, with their efforts riveted on the Lawrence-Kennedy
battle, initially paid about as much attention to Margiotti’s candidacy
as they did to another maverick whose hat was also in the race, Wil-
liam N. McNair. Margiotti was, after all, save for the past four years,
a lifelong Republican and unlikely to gain much support in the up-
coming primary. In mid April, however, the attorney general’s interest
was piqued by GuFfey’s Philadelphia Academy of Music speech. ”As
the chief law officer,” Margiotti telegraphed Guffey, "I call upon you
to submit whatever information you have to me. If warranted, I will
promptly institute criminal prosecution against those involved no
matter who they may be/'15 Gufley never responded and later char-
acterized his charge as ”merely a political speech.” The attorney gen-
eral, however, grabbed the headlines, as well as the attention of the
Democratic hierarchy, with a series of accusations of illegal activi-
ties in office, which eventually overshadowed the party-CIO split and
hounded Lawrence for the next three years.

Margiotti began his barrage with a series of relatively harmless
charges against Matthew McCloskey and Iohn Kelly that induced a
collective yawn in the press. Several days later, on 19 April, Margiotti
accused the governor of accepting kickbacks, an allegation that Earle
quickly disproved. 16 The governor received strong support from most

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134 <1 Don’t call me boss

of the state's major newspapers, which correctly accused Margiotti
of staging a fishing expedition to gain publicity.

Margiotti’s third attempt, however, produced the blockbuster re-
action he hoped for. Speaking on 26 April to an audience of approxi-
mately a thousand at the Paramount Theater in New Kensington, he
attacked Lawrence and McCloskey. ”Every time George H. Earle
turned his back,” he charged in a rather accurate characterization of
the operation of the Earle administration,

David L. Lawrence sat in the govemor’s chair and ruled Penn-
sylvania with an iron hand. Much of this time, Satchel Man
McCloskey stood at his side. Dictator Lawrence sat in that
chair more minutes, more hours, more days, and more months
than the Governor himself. . . . He became the chief mogul of
the spoils system. . . . He surveyed his domain. He divided it
into two parts. He gave the principality of Philadelphia to Mc-
Closkey. The balance of the empire, including the province of
Allegheny, he retained for himself.

During all legislative sessions, Lawrence and McCloskey
dictated the course of legislation. . . . Night and day, at every
session, they could be seen hurrying and scurrying about the
legislative halls issuing their mandates and forcing their will. . . .

They discovered that the state entered into many contracts
for materials and equipment. . . . They discovered the liquor
control board, with its vast purchases of liquor . . . was a fertile
field, because there is no law requiring that liquor be purchased
from the lowest bidder. They discovered that the state was re-
quired to rent property. They discovered the rich insurance
business and bonding business of the state. . . . These political
parasites have their finger in every political pie, their thumb in
every political plum. They are a menace to Pennsylvania, a se-
rious threat to Democracy.”

Margiotti’s shrill accusations might have been dismissed as more
charges by a disgruntled office seeker, except that for the first time
he cited specific illegal activities. He charged that the two men ordered
architects on the General State Authority's $65 million building pro-
gram to ”kickback one third of their six percent commission—one
million, two hundred thousand dollars.” He also raised a charge simi-
lar to the one against Lawrence in 1931. ”Lawrence and his insurance
associates made $750,000 a year selling insurance and surety bonds
to state contractors/'13

The Empire Crumbles l>

The next evening in a statewide radio address delivered at the
Butler County Courthouse, he repeated his charges that Lawrence
accepted a $20,000 bribe in return for enactment of a 1935 beer con-
trol law favorable to the brewing interests and maced state and WPA
employees. Lawrence initially characterized the charges as too ridicu-
lous to talk about, but he soon realized they would occupy a great
deal of his time.

Governor Earle called Margiotti to his office the next day to de-
fend his charges before several officials and a number of journalists.
The stormy meeting lasted nearly an hour, but Margiotti refused to
provide any evidence despite the goVemor’s argument that the sup-
posed offenders could not be arrested without it. Instead, Margiotti
insisted that he intended to request a Dauphin County grand jury in-
vestigation of all charges. ”If you have no confidence in me,” he told
the governor, ”then fire me.” Earle, falling into the trap, did just that. 19

Earle’s action constituted the first of several serious blunders he
would commit in the next few months. Admittedly, the grand jury
investigation Margiotti called for would have undoubtedly lasted be-
yond the spring primary and placed a cloud of suspicion over the en-
tire administration. But the abrupt dismissal, while not preventing
the investigation, prompted immediate charges of a cover-up.

Margiotti wasted no time in carrying out his threat. Twenty-four
hours after his firing, he huddled with Carl B. Shelley, Dauphin
County district attorney, to present his case. He added two charges.
First, he alleged that the prices of highway equipment were increased
to permit kickbacks of thousands of dollars by contractors. Second,
he charged that Governor Earle had attempted to buy him off by offer-
ing him a U.S. Senate seat. Republican Senator Davis had allegedly
agreed to accept a bribe in return for his resignation and the governor
would then appoint Margiotti to serve the remainder of the term. Both
Earle and Davis denied the charge and eventually it was dropped.”
The Republican Dauphin County Court issued the order to begin the
investigation immediately and gave the grand jury broad powers to
probe all potentially illegal activities in the Earle era. The order jus-
tified the administration's worst fears of a fishing expedition.

A furious Lawrence responded to the charges with a few brief com-
ments directed at the state's Voters. ”I want to warn you to beware
of the smear artists. Don't be misled by these professional mud sling-
ers, don't be led astray by the false hysteria they are creating, and don't
be fooled by the false issues they are endeavoring to raise.”-"-1 Other-
wise, as was customary with him in times of adversity, he maintained
a public silence on the grand jury investigation, which was sched-

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136 <1 Don’t call me boss

uled to begin one week before the spring primaries. He attempted to
conduct a normal campaign, speaking across the state on behalf of
his major candidates, Earle and Iones.

Governor Earle, however, unable to maintain the same com-
posure, announced on 3 May that his new attorney general, Guy K.
Bard, would conduct the state's own investigation. The press natur-
ally pointed out that the move would place the investigation in the
hands of the accused. The governor then aggravated the situation. On
Io May, just eight days before the primary, he attempted to block the
grand jury hearings. Bard argued before the State Supreme Court that
the judiciary did not have the constitutional right to investigate the
govemor’s office or the affairs of his cabinet members. The court re-
jected the argument, but not until after the primary. Thus the Demo-
cratic organization had to complete the primary campaign under sus-
picion not only of serious illegal activities but also of an attempted
cover-up.

The cloud that now hung over the organization cut into the ex-
pected Earle-Iones vote in the May primary but did not produce the
”housecleanjng” predicted by Margiotti. Governor Earle easily defeated
the CIO-Guffey choice for the Senate nomination, Mayor 8. Davis
Wilson of Philadelphia, but the victory was expected. The real con-
test centered on the govemor’s chair. In that race, Lawrence's can-
didate, Iones, defeated Thomas Kennedy by approximately Ioo,ooo
votes, although the Kennedy-Margiotti candidacies captured 55 per-
cent of the votes. The results demonstrated the strength of the or-
ganization, now headed by Lawrence alone, but they also indicated
the gravity of the division in the party. Unless it could be repaired,
the Democratic party, which began the year with such high hopes,
faced defeat in November. ”It is no exaggeration,” a Nation correspon-
dent wrote, ”to say that the Democratic party in this primary has
sowed the seeds of its own destruction in November.” Lawrence with-
stood the attempted coup by Lewis and Guf-fey, but the victory could
prove to be a Pyrrhic one.”

First, it was not clear what price Guf-fey and Lewis would try to
extract in return for the 5oo,ooo votes cast for Kennedy or whether
the CIO forces would decide to conduct an independent election
campaign. Lewis's post primary statement pointed out the narrow-
ness of the Iones victory and gave a hint that he would be difficult
to deal with.”

Adding to the organization's difficulties, one could not predict
how much damage the Margiotti charges had done, but it appeared
that the corruption issue, now out in the open, would not disappear

The Empire Crumbles l>

before December. The Republicans would exploit it even if the Su-
preme Court upheld the govemor’s request to dismiss the grand jury.
From Lawrence's perspective no attempt at reconciliation would be
made with Margiotti. He would not be welcomed back into the party
under any circumstance.

Lawrence, anxious to resolve the other differences which divided
the party,‘ began attempts at reconciliation with Kennedy, Lewis,
and Guffey immediately after the primary. His efforts eventually
succeeded and by September each dissident had announced that he
would support the organization ticket.

Ironically, on the same day that Lawrence and Gufiey armounced
the resolution of their differences, Dauphin County District Attor-
ney Carl Shelley presented a new and ultimately more serious one.
Responding to a request by the Pennsylvania Supreme Court for more
detailed information, the district attorney presented specific charges
—macing, demanding kickbacks from individuals and contributions
to the party from contractors, and selling legislation—against Earle,
Lawrence, four other cabinet members, and several other high rank-
ing officers.“

Governor Earle, shaken by the charges and their almost certain
detrimental effect on his fall election hopes and White House dreams,
reacted by threatening to supersede (replace) the Dauphin County
district attorney by having his own state attorney general assume com-
mand of the case. Lawrence strongly opposed the idea. The party had
already been hurt by charges of attempting a cover-up, and the gover-
nor’s proposed action would add fuel to the now open fire. He quickly
called a meeting of the major figures named in the Shelley present-
ment to attempt to dissuade Earle and plan further strategy. The gov-
emor was eventually persuaded that an aggressive public defense was
their best alternative, and he reluctantly gave way, but he retained
the right to replace Shelley later if he becamed convinced it was
in the group's best interests. Earle, all then agreed, should provide
the public response to the charges. The rest, except for denying any
wrongdoing when specifically asked, would refrain from any further
comment.25

Two days later, Governor Earle delivered the official statement
via a statewide radio hookup. He began by attacking the proposed
grand jury investigation as ”a politically inspired inquisition to be
conducted by henchmen of the Republican State Committee, before
a Republican dominated jury, answerable to a hostile Republican
Court, on evidence gathered by a research man for the Republican
machine.” There was much truth in the charge. Why, Earle asked,

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138 <1 Don't call me boss

had the district attorney and the Republican court ignored a sitting
grand jury, which contained seven Democrats, in favor of the nearly
all-Republican body to convene in September? Earle then repeated
a demand made earlier to Charles Margiotti. ”If the District Attor-
ney of Dauphin County has sufficient evidence to warrant any of the
charges . . . it is his sworn duty to arrest those whom he accuses. If
anyone in my administration is dishonest, he should be promptly ar-
rested, charged, and punished if convicted.” He prophesied accurately
that ”the Republican plotters propose to drag out this Grand jury in-
quiry until just before the November election, obtain indictments,
and then postpone the trials, . . . until after the election.” He closed
by repeating his waming that the administration could not permit
one branch of government, the judiciary, to act as overlord of another,
the executive. The implied safeguard, although he stopped short of
naming it, was the executive's right to supersede the district attor-
ney.26 In spite of the urgings of Lawrence and others, he obviously
had not rejected that course of action permanently.

One week later, in fact, the governor, now acting on his own, in-
structed Attorney General Bard to begin proceedings to supersede
District Attorney Shelley in the case. The plea quickly reached the
State Supreme Court, which rejected Earle’s bid.

The announcement prompted a bizarre reaction on the part of
the governor. He contacted Bard and requested legal information on
the imposition of martial law. Bard immediately phoned Lawrence,
and the two rushed to the govemor’s office to halt any rash action.
When they arrived, they found him huddled with the commander of
the state National Guard, General E. A. Sharmon. The governor had
made up his mind; he would ”put a stop to this persecution.” Law-
rence and Earle, for the first time, exchanged harsh words before Earle
finally agreed to forgo imposing martial law, but he would authorize
a special session of the state legislature to take over the investiga-
tion. Lawrence was opposed to this idea also, and he and Bard sug-
gested that instead all principals cooperate with the grand jury inves-
tigation while hitting back at Margiotti with a libel suit. When it
became clear, however, that the governor meant to have either mar-
tial law or a legislative investigation, Lawrence reluctantly agreed
to the latter.”

On 25 Iuly, in an evening speech to a specially convened General
Assembly and over statewide radio, Earle lashed out at the adminis-
tration’s accusers. The partisan audience frequently interrupted the
address with wild cheering and applause. Charging the judiciary with
violating the constitutional separation of powers, the governor pledged

The Empire Crumbles l>

to resist ”the establishment of a judicial dictatorship” and ordered that
the legislature investigate the charges against his administration. In
addition, he accused Margiotti, Shelley, and the state Republican
leadership of slander and libel, ”from the safe concealment of judicial
protection,” in order to divert public attention from the achievements
of the Democratic administration and legislature. The governor con-
cluded his address by calling for the prohibition of the grand jury ses-
sion scheduled to begin on 8 August.”

The leadership of the House, caught up in the supposed urgency
of the crisis, introduced a series of measures designed to kill the grand
jury investigation and force disclosure of all evidence held by Shelley
to a House investigating commission, to be established. The propos-
als were submitted to the House Committee on State Government
within minutes of the conclusion of Earle’s address and given a first
reading on the floor of the House the next morning. Without benefit
of public hearings, five bills designed to accomplish the administra-
tion's goal were rushed through the House and Senate and placed on
the govemor’s desk in three days, the minimum amount of time per-
mitted by state law.

The governor immediately signed the bills empowering the
Speaker of the House, Roy E. Furman, a Democrat, to name a seven-
member board——five Democrats and two Republicans—to investigate
the charges originally made by Charles Margiotti. The Democratic
floor leader, Herbert Cohen, served as the chairman.” The panel con-
vened on 3 August, five days before the scheduled start of the com-
peting grand jury hearings. In its first action it issued a subpoena
ordering District Attorney Shelley to present to the House all the evi-
dence in his possession regarding the corruption charges.

The worst fears of Lawrence and Bard were realized when judge
Schaefier, the presiding judge, announced that the Dauphin County
grand jury would convene on 8 August regardless of the recent legis-
lative action. He also said that he had impounded all evidence col-
lected for the grand jury to prevent its disclosure before the House
investigating commission. Obeying the judge's orders, Shelley refused
to appear. Five days later, judge Schaefier issued an additional rul-
ing declaring the hurriedly passed legislation unconstitutional.

The battle continued through the summer and into the fall. The
State Supreme Court joined in by issuing temporary injunctions
against both investigations until it could rule on the Schaeffer con-
stitutional decisions. On 7 September the high court ruled that the
legislature could begin its investigation and ordered Shelley to pre-
sent his evidence to the panel. The district attorney complied but,

139

Preface [> xv

Chudacoff, Ioel Tarr, and William T rimble provided input or support
at important times. Bruce Stave generously turned over his entire set
of research materials compiled for his study of the rise of the Demo-
cratic machine in the 19303. Father Thomas Donaghy permitted me
to see an early version of his own work on Lawrence. I am grateful
for their willingness to share their time, research data, and percep-
tive ideas. Lu Schaefer and Fred Hetzel shared my sense of the impor-
tance of Lawrence's career. They offered encouragement in the ini-
tial stages of the project and provided assistance in securing funds.
Their enthusiasm was contagious, and I thank them. Lu Schaefer also
read every word of an early version of this work. His gentle but con-
structive criticism greatly improved the manuscript. His efforts give
true meaning to the terms colleague and friend.

A special thank-you is offered to Kaye Dudas, who transcribed
the hundreds of hours of often barely audible interviews. Without
her efforts the work truly could not have been completed.

Individuals with whom I requested an interview cheerfully sub-
mitted to my intrusion in their lives. People from every walk of life,
whether friend or foe of Lawrence's, appeared anxious to discuss their
association with him. Corporate heads, ward chairmen, friends, and
relatives provided invaluable details that would have been lost with-
out their cooperation. They supplied the lifebood of the work. I am
particularly indebted to lack Robin and Walter Giesey, Lawrence's
executive secretaries, and to Genevieve Blatt and Natalie Saxe, his
political associates, who went out of their way to provide informa-
tion and additional important contacts. Lawrence's daughter, Anna
Mae Donahoe, was gracious from beginning to end of the project.
She tolerated several interviews and many phone calls and provided
access to her personal collection of Lawrence materials. My sincere
thanks to everyone who granted interviews. This work is in large
part yours.

A special debt of gratitude is owed the copyeditor, Irma Garlick.
Her probing questions, gentle prodding, and editorial skills greatly
improved the readability of this work. Her ability to cut passages from
an overly long manuscript without excessive trauma to the author
is much appreciated.

Finally, I am indebted to my wife, Patricia. She gave the encour-
agement and assistance one comes to expect and too often take for
granted from one’s spouse. However, her willingness to spend an
entire beach vacation clarifying passages, eliminating grammatical
errors, and spotting punctuation faults was well beyond the call of
duty. Thanks Pat.

140 <l Don't call me boss

in an attempt to sabotage the commission, insisted on presenting
every piece of evidence, a full truckload. His six-day testimony re-
iterated the charges presented earlier and revealed the names of more
than sixty persons whom he had interviewed and who had or ”might
have” evidence to substantiate the charges. However, he failed to pro-
duce any evidence implicating any of those named and admitted that
he had no firsthand knowledge of administration involvement in
criminal activities. Margiotti, who followed Shelley, testified inter-
mittently for nearly a month. He repeated his charges and further
cited Lawrence as ”principal” in an operation permitting the purchase
of eight hundred tons of substandard gravel from the Pioneer Mate-
rials Company in return for substantial political contributions.

The investigation dragged on for nearly three months, hearing II9
witnesses and producing 8,165 pages of testimony.3° The commission,
which Earle hoped would exonerate the accused, failed to complete
its deliberations until after the fall election, further damaging Demo-
cratic hopes for victory. It committed its most serious blunder when
it failed to call any of the fourteen accused state officials, all of whom
publicly denied any wrongdoing, to testify prior to the election. In
any case, unsympathetic newspapers and the Republican leadership
and candidates Iames Davis (U.S. Senate) and Arthur Iames (gover-
nor) denounced the investigation as a whitewash. One minority mem-
ber of the panel accused the Democrats of ”cream puff tactics,” while
the Pittsburgh Press, formerly sympathetic to the Earle administra-
tion, attacked the hearings and published each week a list of those
state senators and representatives who had supported the investiga-
tion legislation. Voters were urged to make known their dissatisfac-
tion at the November general election.

The State Supreme Court added to the Democratic difficulties
when, one month before general election, it permitted the Dauphin
County grand jury to proceed with its investigation. Iudge Schaeffer
did nothing to relieve the Democratic anxiety by announcing that
he would begin immediately after the election. Thus the Democratic
party entered the last month of the campaign under investigation by
two boards of inquiry.

The Republican candidates, as one might expect, attacked the
legislative record of the administration, charging that the Little New
Deal, rife with waste and favor rendering, had actually hurt the aver-
age voter by driving industry out of the state. More effectively, they
relentlessly attacked the opposition as the party of ”corruption, fraud,
influence peddlers, and kickbacks.” At every opportunity, Republican
candidates raised the issue of an administrative whitewash and at-

The Empire Crumbles l>

tacked as a cover-up the Democratic attempts to prevent the Shelley
investigation.“

In early October, Lawrence who had begun to fear the worst, sum-
moned the Democratic county chairmen from all over the state to
Harrisburg to assess the extent of the damage. They reinforced his
concern. While Democratic voter registration had increased by sub-
stantial proportions since the 1936 presidential election, recruitment
of new voters had almost stopped since Margiotti first made his
charges. Between 1936 and November 1937, for example, the party
reduced the Republican majority in the state by more than 4oo,ooo.
The comparable figure for the 1937-38 period was less than 25,000.
The chairmen also reported substantial unrest and criticism of the
administration's handling of the unresolved investigations. Lawrence
urged the chairmen to increase their efforts but privately prepared
for disaster. For the first time ever, he abandoned the campaign trail
three weeks before the election, preferring to remain in Harrisburg
to monitor the dissolution of his empire from its center.”

On 8 November the expected voter revolt occurred. Braving an
early winter storm that affected most of the state, the Pennsylvania
electorate produced a near-record tumout—nearly two-thirds of the
registered voters. The outpouring rejected Democratic candidates
Earle and Iones by 4oo,ooo and 300,000 votes respectively. In addi-
tion, the Republican party regained control of the State House and
barely missed winning a majority in the State Senate when they gained
eighteen of the twenty-six contested seats ; Democratic holdovers en-
abled the party to maintain a majority of one.

The defeat of the two Democratic candidates was statewide,-
neither man won more than six of the sixty-seven counties. The Law-
rence organization managed to deliver both Pittsburgh and Allegheny
County to Jones, but the margin of victory in each case was slim.
Earle claimed a fifteen-thousand-vote edge in Pittsburgh but lost Alle-
gheny County by one hundred votes. Both candidates lost by narrow
margins in Philadelphia County. Small cities, townships, and bor-
oughs that had returned a majority for the Democrats in 1934 fell back
into the Republican camp. Rural Pennsylvania, which had remained
Republican in 1934 and 1936, continued its traditional pattem.33

An analysis of the election returns indicates that while the Re-
publican majorities were not overwhelming, in nearly every district
the Republicans received a larger proportion of their total registered
vote than did the Democrats. In short, Republicans turned out in
record numbers to support their ticket while Democrats, torn by
the internal feuding, failed to show up at the polls or supported the

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142 <1 Don’t call me boss

Iames-Davis ticket. Less than 60 percent of the registered Democrats
voted.34 Centers of organized labor, such as Pittsburgh, Erie, New
Castle, Iohnstown, Williamsport, Wilkes-Barre, Scranton, and Phila-
delphia, all produced disappointing Democratic support. The split in
the party was healed apparently only on the surface. Many working-
class Democrats, denied a labor candidate by the primary, refused
to vote.

The graft and corruption charges that hung over the Democratic
party throughout the campaign clearly contributed to its defeat. It
is difficult to determine what proportion of the voters turned out to
register their dissatisfaction against an allegedly corrupt adminis-
tration, but the number appears to be considerable. Iames and Davis
ran lackluster campaigns, and, while Iames had a reputation as an
excellent orator, neither had the appeal of Governor Earle. They also
lacked the organizational or patronage advantages of the Democratic
party. Yet record numbers of registered Republicans, in spite of bad
weather, went to the polls. Some, of course, may have been disen-
chanted with the imposition of the Little New Deal and the pro-
Roosevelt administration. But the campaign nearly ignored these
issues and focused on the difficulties of key members of the admin-
istration and the attempts by the governor to obstruct the investi-
gation. The citizens had indeed thrown the rascals out.

A postelection analysis by James A. Farley, an aide to Roosevelt,
underscored the impact of the scandal on the voters. Shortly after the
election, Farley wrote to each of the state's Democratic county chair-
men and the leading figures in the party asking for reasons for the
defeat. They gave a variety of answers, but nearly all divided the pri-
mary blame between Margiotti and Earle. Margiotti gleefully empha-
sized the impact of the scandal in the postelection comment, ”The
people of Pennsylvania have spoken with unmistakable vigor that
they will not stand for crime and corruption. The election results are
a drastic warning to political leaders that we still live in a Democ-
racy where no individual or group of individuals can rise above the
welfare of the people.”35

Lawrence, as was his custom, joined Pittsburgh Democrats in the
city headquarters to await the returns. ”As the bad news began to come
in,” one party worker recalled, ”people began to file out one by one.
I had never seen Dave so discouraged.” Lawrence issued a terse com-
ment to the press. ”The Republicans have won a victory. Until I have
a chance to analyze the returns, I have nothing further to say.”36 He
never issued a follow-up comment.

The debacle of the 1938 election ended all talk of an ”Earle for

The Empire Crumbles [>

president” move in 1940, terminated the most liberal period in the
history of state government after two short years, and seriously tar-
nished Ioseph Guffey’s reputation as co-leader of the state Democratic
organization. Lawrence did not escape unscathed. His inability to
reach a compromise with the Lewis-Kennedy forces and his choice
of the ill-prepared and unknown Charles Alvin Iones contributed to
the defeat. His dispute with Guf-fey, furthermore, splintered the party
and ensured more strife in the immediate future. In addition, Law-
rence had gained a lifelong enemy, Charles Margiotti, who would con-
tinue to seek vengeance for the next two decades.

Lawrence barely had time to begin to consider how to resurrect
his shattered party when the Earle investigative session resumed its
deliberations. The commission, now in lame duck session, moved
swiftly to conclude its business by its deadline, 30 November. It
called the fourteen officials, one by one, to testify, and each denied
all charges and declared his innocence. The testimony proved to be
too little, too late.

Lawrence, who was named in nearly all the charges, gave the most
extensive testimony. Under sharp cross-examination by the two Re-
publican members, David Perry and Elwood Turner, he denied any
knowledge of kickbacks from architects or contractors, of bribes ac-
cepted in return for favorable legislation, or of macing of party work-
ers or government officials. On the last of these charges, he explained
that each county chairman was assessed a certain amount, based on
patronage provided to the county, and local party officials determined
how they would raise the funds. It was the method he had used suc-
cessfully in Pittsburgh and Allegheny County. Furthermore ”The spe-
cific orders of the Governor and myself, as State Chairman, were that
no employees should be coerced or that no employee should be dis-
missed at any time because they did not contribute to the state fund.
That order was given by myself.” Of the kickback allegations, he tes-
tified that it had indeed been suggested that a syndicate be formed
of architects who supported the administration and who would re-
ceive General State Authority contracts—by none other than Mar-
giotti. Lawrence had rejected the idea. He concluded his testimony
with a blanket denial. ”I want to put on the record, a denial of any
wrongdoing or that I know of any in the Administration or in con-
nection with me whatsoever. I know that in the time since I came
here in 1935, I honestly and conscientiously have served the State of
Pennsylvania.”37

The commission met the following day to hear the govemor’s
testimony and adjourned to prepare its report. Seven days later the

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144 <1 Don’t call me boss

Democratic majority filed its one-hundred-page report finding ”no evi-
dence which tends to substantiate the charges it has been appointed
to investigate.” The report, not surprisingly, was highly critical of
Margiotti, accusing him of depending ”upon rumor, hearsay and gos-
sip in the proof of many of the charges.” The majority further found
”gross improprieties” in many of Margiotti’s actions while he was at-
torney general. They also singled Shelley out for criticism, express-
ing amazement that he could charge public officials with grave of-
fenses without interviewing or taking statements from any of the
witnesses he named and without direct evidence of the commission
of any offense.”

A fifty-four-page minority report responded by pointing out that
the Democratic majority on the commission had blocked the sub-
poena of the books of the Democratic State Committee, refused to
interview Matthew McCloskey, holder of $11 million of state con-
tracts, and rejected a Republican demand that state employees be per-
mitted to testify about political payroll assessments. ”T he legislative
session and the committee created during this session have been pub-
licly and widely said to exist for the purpose of whitewashing the
accused. We of the minority confirm that opinion.” The minority re-
port, calling the ”so-called investigation a farce,” recommended that
the entire case be turned over to the courts where it began four months
earlier.” Lawrence's ordeal was far from over.

1940-1942
Years of Trauma

Governor Earle’s House investigating panel accomplished little more
than keep the alleged illegal activities on the front pages of the state's
newspapers for the entire fall campaign. It no doubt contributed heav-
ily to the stinging Democratic defeat. The results satisfied no one
and failed to prevent the full-scale investigation by the Dauphin
County grand jury that District Attorney Carl Shelley began shortly
after the 1938 election. He and Margiotti continued to confer during
December, and when the newly appointed grand jury convened on
18 December, the prosecution was ready to present its case. The star
witness for the district attorney was to be the master barrister, Charles
I. Margiotti himself. Iudge Paul Schaeffer gave the jury sweeping pow-
ers to ”inquire into any angle of the state's business,” but he specifi-
cally directed an examination of five major charges. David Lawrence
was allegedly implicated in all. The first was that public officials in-
volved in the insurance business conspired to induce the state to pur-
chase surety bonds from selected firms, identified in the hearings as
the Harris-Lawrence and James P. Kirk agencies, both located in Pitts-
burgh, and two Philadelphia firms. The four companies allegedly sup-
plied Ioo percent of all the surety bonds purchased by the state. When
evidence was produced to indicate that Lawrence had taken a leave
of absence from his agency upon assuming office in 1935, his name
was dropped from the presentment. Lawrence's close friend, Iames
Kirk, however, was indicted and eventually convicted of attempting
to establish a monoply on the writing of bonds for state highway con-
tracts. Kirk and his business partner, Iames P. Skok, received small
fines. The second charge, that architects were forced to kick back part
of their fees as a condition of receiving contracts, was rejected by the
grand jury as ”being without sufficient evidence to warrant indict-

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146 <l Don’t call me boss

ment.” The third, that Lawrence and other high officials had accepted
bribes from the brewing industry in return for favorable legislation,
was treated similarly. It was noted that the event allegedly occurred
during 1935, at which time the Republicans controlled the State Sen-
ate and it was highly unlikely that the Democratic officials could
have consummated such a deal. Indictments were returned, however,
on charges of extorting political contributions from contractors in
return for state contracts and of requiring political contributions from
state employees as a condition of employment (macing). Each indict-
ment was to be tried separately}

”Lawrence Indicted in Gravel Scandal,” screamed the headlines
of the Pittsburgh Press on Saturday, 7 Ianuary 1939. If convicted, he
faced a lengthy prison sentence and a possible twenty-five-thousand-
dollar fine. The grand jury case evolved, ironically, not from any of
the charges leveled by Margiotti but from a seemingly minor scan-
dal over the sale of road gravel that occurred early in the Earle ad-
ministration.

In December 1936 an ofi-lcial of the Pioneer Materials Company
of Kittanning offered a state highway department inspector a ”Christ-
mas presen ” of eighty-five dollars in cash. The inspector reported the
incident to his superiors, touching off the investigation that stalled
the Democratic state steamroller directed by Lawrence and changed
the lives of dozens of Pennsylvania residents. When other irregulari-
ties were uncovered, Governor Earle ordered Superintendent Adams
of the state police to conduct a full-scale investigation. Adams’s re-
port, delivered to the governor in mid 1937, revealed that two high-
level state highway officials ignored specifications for paving gravel
to permit them to purchase inferior material from Spurgeon Bowser,
the president of Pioneer Materials. The two agreed to overlook the
specifications to comply with the wishes of Iohn Verona, political
boss of Pittsburgh's Third Ward. Verona, described as a ”dapper, well-
fed man in his forties,” controlled the Hill District long before the
Democrats came to power. A longtime Republican, he had followed
his friend and attorney, Margiotti, into the Democratic ranks in 1934.
The Adams report identified Verona as the go-between for Bowser and
the state officials and as the unnamed ”Mr. So-and-So” who, accord-
ing to the chief state engineer, H. H. Temple, ”wants this stuff [gravel]
moved.” Verona, however, died in a bar fight in Pittsburgh on I2 ]anu-
ary 1937 and took his version of the story to the grave with him. The
governor, noting that Adams found no evidence of any illegal activ-
ity on the part of the named officials, dismissed them both for im-
proprieties in office. The report, Earle was quick to point out, ”exon-

Years of Trauma l> 147

erated all other state officials of any knowledge of the scandal/'2 As
far as the governor and his aides were concerned, that put a prompt
end to a mild indiscretion on the part of two minor officials.

The grand jury presentment of 7 Ianuary I939 tied Lawrence to
the so-called minor scandal by charging that he (I) violated election
laws by extorting $5000 from Bowser as an election contribution,
which he failed to submit or report to the Democratic state treasurer;
(2) obtained the payment in cash, by blackmail through a threat to
use his power and influence as a state and party official; and ( 3) along
with the deceased Verona and others [including several cabinet mem-
bers], conspired to cheat and defraud the Commonwealth, to pro-
cure unlawful contracts, and to influence officials.3 The interjection
of Lawrence changed the affair in two important respects. First, the
scandal now obviously reached to the top of the Democratic party
and perhaps into the govemor’s mansion. (The grand jury asked and
received permission to continue its investigation to determine what
role, if any, the governor or his other cabinet members played in
the conspiracy.) Lawrence, the prize plum, was to be the test case.
If he were convicted, other trials would surely follow. Second, Bow-
ser became a victim rather than a perpetrator of the alleged crime.
He was supposedly forced to contribute, under threat, substantial
campaign funds. In his new role he became a crucial witness for the
prosecution.

The first Lawrence trial began on 13 November 1939 in the Dau-
phin County Court House. In his opening statement to the jury-
nine Republicans and three Democrats—the assistant district attor-
ney, Earl V. Compton, painted a vivid picture of corruption, bribery,
fraud, and conspiracy in the Democratic administration of George
Earle. He told them that Verona was initially promised the job of pur-
chasing agent of the state's $78 million liquor monopoly as a reward
for carrying his ward for the Democrats in 1934. When the position
was given to someone else, Verona was told he would ”be permitted
to make some money on gravel/'4 Lawrence, the prosecution sug-
gested, was Verona’s sponsor. Bowser, was similarly told that, to sell
paving materials to the state highway department, he ”would have
to have a representative,” and it was suggested that he contact Verona.
Bowser did so and agreed to pay Verona ten cents per ton on any gravel
sold to the state.

Lawrence, Compton told the jury, also intervened at the state
level. Whenever Verona arrived in Harrisburg to see state highway
officials about gravel purchases, Lawrence's secretary, Mrs. Alice
Priddy, with Lawrence's blessing, called the chief highway engineer,

148 <1 Don’t call me boss

H. H. Temple, to inform him that Verona was on his way. Lawrence
also repeatedly phoned E. A. Griffith, the district engineer in the
Pioneer Materials Company district, to urge him to use more gravel
in order to provide additional business for the Verona-Bowser com-
bination. Griffith allegedly complied.

Compton concluded by explaining various ways in which legal
bids were rejected in favor of Pioneer bids and by charging Lawrence
with extorting $5000 in cash from Bowser on 2 April 1937 in Lawrence's
Pittsburgh office. In addition, Bowser allegedly paid $1000 each to
the Democratic committees of Venango and Erie counties.5

For the next two weeks, the prosecution introduced an impressive
group of witnesses. Most of the thirty-three who testified repeated
accounts presented earlier before the Special Legislative Investigative
Commission or the grand jury and provided little new evidence. Sev-
eral gave testimony that appeared to implicate Verona or the chief
accuser, Margiotti, but added little to the state's case against Law-
rence. For example, one key witness, Arthur Colegrove, former state
secretary of property and supplies, testified that he held up the deliv-
ery of gravel by the Pioneer Materials Company when informed by
an assistant highway superintendent that the ”stuff is just awful.” In
response to questioning, he revealed that Margiotti attempted for the
next six months to persuade him to accept the questionable gravel,
arguing that Pioneer Materials had submitted a legal low bid. It was
Margiotti who called him in and introduced him to Verona. Margi-
otti arranged meetings with Colegrove in his own office, as well in
the offices of Earle, Lawrence, and Colegrove, and added further pres-
sure to force Colegrove to accept the bids by holding up all bid checks
of contractors during the five-month period.“

Lawrence, Colegrove testified, was present at several of the meet-
ings but took no part in the arguing on behalf of Pioneer Materials.
He did, however, support the attorney general. ”Mr. Lawrence,” Cole-
grove repeated several times, ”maintained the position that if Mr.
Margiotti felt it to be a legal bid that I was being somewhat obsti-
nate in not making the award.”7 Governor Earle eventually sustained
Colegrove’s decision to reject the Pioneer gravel with no objection
from Lawrence.

The lone negative note in Colegrove’s testimony came when he
named Lawrence, not Verona, as the mysterious ”Mr. So-and-So.” In
the course of the negotiations over the Pioneer bids, Colegrove con-
sulted Temple. ”He told me he knew these people [Pioneer Materials
Company] had a lot of gravel accumulated up there, and that Davey

Years of Trauma [>

wanted it moved/'8 Temple in later testimony supported Colegrove’s
statement that Lawrence was indeed ”Mr. S0-and-So.”

The most damaging testimony occurred on the fifth and sixth
days, when the president of Pioneer, Spurgeon Bowser, took the stand.
Verona, he testified, approached him in the spring of 1935 to make
known his ability to assist in securing highway materials contracts.
To prove his claim of influence, Verona took Bowser to Conneaut
Lake in northern Pennsylvania to visit Lawrence at his summer cot-
tage. Afterward, Verona and Bowser continued to meet until they
agreed on a fee, which, on a per-ton basis, would net Verona $30,000
over the next several years.9

The testimony of Bowser, Colegrove, Griffith, and others thus
far clearly indicated that Verona extorted funds from Bowser. Bow-
ser’s evidence showed that he willingly participated in the scheme,
while Griffith and Temple probably joined the conspiracy because
they believed they were carrying out the wishes of those higher up.
In addition, Margiotti had participated. It remained unclear, however,
whether Verona ever had the influence with Lawrence and others that
he claimed, and the prosecution never attempted to make a case that
Lawrence was involved in this first stage.

The involvement of David Lawrence, according to Bowser’s tes-
timony, began in February 1937, approximately one month after the
death of Verona. Bowser visited Lawrence, at the latter’s request, in
his Pittsburgh office. ”Mr. Lawrence said, ‘You know, Iohn owed me
$10,000 and he said he was going to get it from you. Now that John
is gone, I'm going to look to you for that $10,000.” Bowser offered
a noncommittal reply and agreed to meet Lawrence at a later date
to discuss the matter. The later date, he testified, was on 25 March
1937, and the place, Lawrence's Harrisburg office. Lawrence report-
edly continued to pressure Bowser for the payoff, telling him at a
later meeting, ”I know you received a lot of money from the highway
department just a few days ago. . . . If you don't get that [$10,000] in
here within a few days, you are going to find yourself in a much worse
off jam than you already are in.” With that, Bowser testified, ”I left
the office.”1°

Seven days later, on 2 April, Bowser stated, he instructed his com-
pany treasurer, Sidney Toy, to draw a check for $5,100. Toy cashed
it and gave the money to Bowser. ”I went immediately to Mr. Law-
rence’s [Pittsburgh] office . . . and laid $5000 . . . on his desk. He picked
it up and put it in a drawer.” Lawrence gave him no receipt and he
asked for none. Bowser and Lawrence met several times after that,

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150 <1 Don't call me boss

and Lawrence always inquired how Bowser was going to explain the
$5000 should the question arise in an investigation.“

District Attorney Shelley's case broke down with the evidence
of the five women witnesses. Interest in the courtroom on the eigh-
teenth day focused on three defense witnesses: Lawrence's secretary,
Alice Priddy, and two stenographers. All three testified that 25 March
1937 —the day on which Bowser said he was threatened by the Demo-
cratic state chairman if he did not pay the ten-thousand dollars —was
a holiday, and neither Lawrence nor Bowser appeared in the oflfice.
While none of the women worked the entire day, they all testified
that at least two were present in the office at all times that day. Law-
rence’s wife, Alyce, later testified that on the second crucial date,
2 April I937—the date on which Bowser stated that he paid Lawrence
the $5000 in his Pittsburgh office—her husband spent the morning
in Harrisburg, then caught the afternoon train for Pittsburgh. She met
him at the East Liberty train station at 6:00 P.M. Mr. and Mrs. I. Pat-
ton of Moon Township in Beaver County also testified that they met
with the party chairman in Harrisburg that morning to ask him to
attend a political rally.”-

The defense produced a long list of its own witnesses, including
U.S. Senator Ioseph Guffey, former Governor Earle, and Iimmy Kirk.
Lawrence, testifying in his own behalf, appeared, according to sev-
eral news reports, ”confident but somewhat ill at ease.” He systemati-
cally denied all the charges against him and maintained that he had
not been at either of his offices on the crucial dates. Furthermore,
he ”had nothing to do with the administrative decisions that made
it possible for gravel producers to bid for state work, with the speci-
fications for gravel, the proposals to buy, or with the award of any
contract.” He was traveling thousands of miles, all over Pennsylvania
during the fall of I936—when proposals to buy gravel were being
prepared—in connection with the 1936 campaign. He left for a post-
election vacation in Europe II November, a day before the opening
of bids resulting in the contract award to the Pioneer Company. Law-
rence ended his testimony with a brief but fiery attack on his accuser,
Charles Margiotti.13

Following the summation by the opposing attorneys, Judge
Charles Hughes, a Republican, outlined the case for the jury. He dis-
cussed forty-one main points and drew attention to the testimony
of six persons that Lawrence could not have been at the meetings
at which he allegedly demanded and received the payofi from Bow-
ser; the additional charges of blackmail and election law violations
could not be upheld if Lawrence was not in his office to demand or

Years of Trauma [>

receive the money on the dates in question. He concluded by remind-
ing the jury that ”a charge of conspiracy is easily made but a mere
suspicion or possibility of a guilty connection must be proved beyond
a reasonable doubt. . . . There has been offered testimony to raise a
reasonable doubt as to the accuracy and credibility of the common-
wealth’s witnesses, and more particularly that of Mr. Bowser.” These
instructions seemed almost a directed not guilty verdict.”

The mostly Republican jury deliberated six hours before retum-
ing a verdict of acquittal on all counts. Lawrence, who had not come
to the court to hear the decision, was immediately mobbed by friends
and reporters in his hotel room. Feeling obvious relief from the strain
that he had endured, he momentarily broke into tears, showing prob-
ably his most honest reaction to the crisis. ”I knew I would be vin-
dicated,” he responded. ”It has been a garden of Gethsemane for me.”
Later, after he had composed himself, he issued a brief statement to
the press. ”Of course, I am delighted with the verdict. At all times
I have had an absolutely clear conscience, since I had done no wrong,
and somehow I felt I would be vindicated/'15 He would have much
more to say about Margiotti and Guffey, who, he felt, precipitated
the entire ordeal, at the conclusion of the second trial, which was
to be held early in 1940.

With at least a partial sense of relief, Lawrence returned to Pitts-
burgh to spend the holidays with his family. Upon his arrival, 5ooo
cheering supporters, a brass band, and waving banners met him at
the Pennsylvania Railroad Station. Harrisburg and the rest of the state
might be hostile, but he was loved and respected by the faithful in
Pittsburgh. The welcome at the station and at Democratic headquar-
ters the next day reinforced his love affair with the city. Lawrence,
looking strained—he had lost about forty or fifty pounds—was obvi-
ously touched, but, as always, he had himself under perfect control.“

The atmosphere at the Lawrence household was similarly affected.
As if seeking solace within the safe confines of his family, Lawrence
spent more time at home that holiday season than usual. All the nor-
mal family rituals were followed, but ”it was different. Christmas was
exceptionally quiet that year because he was so quiet. He still had
that other trial to go and you could tell it was affecting him/'17 He
did not, however, discuss the legal battles with members of his fam-
ily or other close associates.

He continued to operate at a reduced pace, for him, during the
first month of 1940, meeting occasionally with his attorney, Oliver
Eaton, and spending his days at his office in the Benedum-Trees
Building. For the first time in years, he spent many evenings at home

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152 <1 Don't call me boss

with his family. By 2 February, however, when he arrived in Harris-
burg to preside over the Democratic State Committee meeting, he
appeared recharged and ready for battle.

Speaking before the III members, he made a scathing attack on
the Republican party and ”those who attempt to crucify the Demo-
cratic party. A smoke screen of untruths and half-truths was blown
up to obscure the real issues of the [1938] campaign. . . . This caught the
party off guard and led to its defeat in 1938. The Democratic party, . . .
struck out blindly into tactical errors which prejudiced our case.”18
He made it clear that the party would approach the 1940 presidential
and senatorial election with renewed vigor and that he, in spite of
the upcoming trial, intended to lead it to victory. The address praised
President Roosevelt and the New Deal profusely, and the commit-
tee roared its approval of a resolution calling for the renomination
of Roosevelt.

Lawrence's address did not mention the Pennsylvania champion
of the New Deal, Senator Gufiey, an intentional omission that showed
the depth of Lawrence's bitterness toward his former benefactor. The
executive committee signaled that it shared Lawrence's feelings by
refusing to endorse Guffey for a second term. Lawrence's preoccupa-
tion with his past and upcoming trials, however, prevented him from
rallying the party leadership around a suitable replacement. Iack Kelly
received considerable support but expressed little interest in running
against such a formidable opponent as Guffey. Auditor General War-
ren Roberts generated no enthusiasm among the nominating com-
mittee. Unable, for the first time in his career, to suggest a suitable
candidate, Lawrence supported an unprecedented nonendorsement
motion offered by Kelly, which was adopted by the committee by
an overwhelming majority. The leadership opted temporarily for an
open primary and did eventually agree to support Walter A. Iones,
the Pennsylvania Turnpike commissioner, but their inability to act
at the state committee meeting turned the nomination over to Guf-fey.

Following the hectic state committee meeting, Lawrence turned
his attention to the upcoming macing trial, remaining largely inac-
tive throughout the primary campaign. The Democrats would have
to carry on without a leader.

The trial, which began on 25 March 1940, was potentially more
dangerous than the gravel one. Expecting government workers, at all
levels, to contribute funds to the political party that provided the job
was a common practice in Pennsylvania. The Democratic party will-
ingly admitted that it solicited funds from workers and indeed had
established an elaborate system, often known as the "3 percent and

Years of Trauma l>

5 percent club,” to facilitate the collection and distribution of such
funds. Workers earning over $1200 annually were asked to contribute
3 percent of their salaries while those over $1500 were asked to con-
tribute 5 percent. County committees in charge of collection retained
two-fifths of the proceeds and were to remit the remainder to the state
committee. County leaders, anxious to systemize the collection pro-
cess, kept ledger books or individual card indexes of all workers, with
columns labeled ”assessment,” ”payment,” and ”balance.” Frank Tay-
lor, chief clerk of the Democratic State Committee, kept detailed rec-
ords of all county and individual payments.”

The charges against Lawrence and seven other officials grew out
of these practices but rested on allegations of illegal activity in the
method of collecting the funds. Payments could not be required, nor
could workers be coerced or threatened into making them. Reprisals
against those who failed to contribute were similarly illegal. Even
unintentional harassment of workers by overzealous party officials
might easily be construed as illegal. The potential for conviction ap-
peared strong, and the state had only to prove a single instance of
macing to ensure a guilty verdict. To make matters worse, the prose-
cution succeeded in seating an all-Republican jury. Iudge Hughes, a
Republican, who had proved to be strictly nonpartisan in the previ-
ous Lawrence trial, once again presided.

The prosecution based its case on testimony of employees from
Dauphin and Jefferson counties (the latter Margiotti’s home county)
who claimed that they were ”dunned for contributions” by members
of their county committee, who informed them that Lawrence or the
state committee expected it. Of the seven who testified to such treat-
ment, two were former deputies of Margiotti and four were Republi-
can holdovers from the Pinchot administration. Most damaging was
the testimony of I. R. Copenhaver, who stated that he won the back-
ing of the Dauphin County committee for a salary raise by paying
a $383 assessment. He also testified that on another occasion he was
called to a noon meeting of fifty or sixty state employees, which was
conducted by Frank Hean and William Smith, Dauphin County Demo-
cratic oficials and codefendants. ”Mr. Hean spoke of raising money
for the campaign and asked us to pay our back assessments.” He told
them that ofl‘lcials were getting tired of coaxing them and that they
expected them to pay up before the election. Smith announced that
he ”had orders from the State Committee—from Mr. Lawrence-—to
turn over lists of those back in their payments to Mr. Lawrence and
that those who wouldn't pay up would be replaced/'20 Several of the
other witnesses gave essentially the same testimony, stating that they

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154 <1 Don't call me boss

had been present at what was evidently a series of attempts by the
Dauphin County Democratic leaders to increase payments. However,
none of the seven had lost their jobs, even though five failed to meet
their payment quotas.

On 4 April, Charles Margiotti appeared on the witness stand for
the first time in the two Lawrence trials. He began his testimony by
describing a ”super-cabinet,” dominated by Lawrence, which ruled on
all patronage matters. ”Immediately upon my appointment as Attor-
ney General he [Governor Earle] gave me and . . . other cabinet mem-
bers, . . . instructions. It was a condition of the appointment that every
cabinet member make only those appointments and dismissals ap-
proved by a committee consisting of myself, Mr. Lawrence, Mr. Van
Dyke and Harry Kalodner [Earle’s secretary]/'21 Contested appoint-
ments were to be made by Mr. Lawrence alone and those at the county
level by the county Democratic chairmen. Lawrence again served as
the final arbitrator in cases of disputes.

Margiotti then gave two specific examples of attempts by Law-
rence, which he successfully resisted, at macing his own deputies.
Margiotti’s allegations crumbled, however, when he revealed that a
short time later Lawrence told him that, upon reconsidering, he had
decided not to insist that the two Republicans pay their assessment
or be fired.” Thereafter, Margiotti admitted, he heard nothing more
about the matter.

The case for the defense, lasting just over one week, rested on

three major points. First, the prosecution failed to produce evidence
of a single individual who had been fired or denied a raise for fail-
ure to contribute to the Democratic party treasury. Second, an ex-
amination of the financial records of all assessed individuals kept by
state Democratic treasurer Frank Taylor showed that, in the three
and one-half years that the quota system was in operation, the state
committee received only $351,000 of the $901,000 quota, slightly
over one-third. Lawrence's home county paid only $1943 of its 1935
assessment of $7498 and $5211 of its 1938 assessment of $26,879. The
Democratic State Committee, the defense argued, was either embar-
rassingly ineflficient or unwilling to coerce workers to meet their as-
sessments. Third, testimony by several county party chairmen indi-
cated that the quotas were considered targets and the method of
fund-raising was left to the individual counties. In Schuylkill County,
for example, funds were raised through Democratic clubs and social
events. Dauphin County held $Ioo-a-plate dinners, in addition to its
luncheon pep rallies at which it urged workers to ”pay up.” Allegheny

Years of Trauma [>

County had an automobile raffle, and Iefferson County held six ”vic-
tory dinners/'23

By the time that Lawrence took the stand, the case appeared to
be won. In his earlier trial he had exhibited some concern; now, by
contrast, he was relaxed and confident. His testimony, which touched
on a variety of subjects ranging from party organization to fund-raising
to interpersonal relationships, ofiers one of the best insights into the
personality and ability of this largely private man. He began by ex-
plaining in great detail the operation of the party from the level of
the municipality through that of the state. He indicated differences
in operation from county to county and identified those that had diffi-
culty raising funds and those that frequently exceeded their quotas.
He told the jury that in his view a functioning democracy required
the presence of two political parties and that he believed it his patri-
otic responsibility to raise funds ”to build a strong, virile Democratic
party,” just as the opposition had a similar obligation.

In explaining the early source of his difficulties with Margiotti,
Lawrence showed a sensitivity to the importance of interpersonal rela-
tions in the harmonious operation of the organization. At the begin-
ning of the Earle administration all administration-sponsored bills
were written in the attorney general’s office. ”But it became clear that
many cabinet members would draw [up] legislation, work out prob-
lems . . . and then the . . . Attomey General would give press releases
and take away from the department the credit for working it out. It
wasn't fair and was causing hard feelings and so the system was
changed whereby the bills were prepared and newspaper releases were
given out by each of the several departments/'24

Finally, Lawrence demonstrated flashes of his dry wit and his bit-
terness toward Margiotti when he responded to questions regarding
his relationship with him.

Compton: Mr. Margiotti testified that he held no animosity
toward you.

Lawrence: If he had none, then the Lord deliver all of us from
friends like that. Machiavelli would have said the
same thing.

Compton: But you delivered a birthday cake to him when he
was ill in the hospital in April of 1937.

Lawrence: That was my wife's idea.

Compton: As a matter of fact, didn't Mrs. Lawrence bake that

cake?

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156 <l Don't call me boss

Lawrence: Mrs. Lawrence bakes much better cakes than
that.25

Lawrence, of course, denied that individuals were coerced into
contributing and explained how the 3 and 5 percent assessment de-
veloped «from a 1935 suggestion that counties be assessed quotas in
proportion to the amount of patronage they received. The contribu-
tions were to be strictly voluntary, and the quota could be paid through
individual offerings or county. fund-raising activities or a combina-
tion of the two.26

Defense and prosecution attorneys, as expected, concluded the
trial with ringing denunciations of the two principals, Margiotti and
Lawrence, but the case was essentially over. Iudge Hughes, in his
charge to the jury, once again indicated that the prosecution had not
proved its case. Reminding it that the charge against the defendants
was ”a conspiracy to extort money and not a conspiracy to solicit and
collect money for political purposes,” he made it clear that this was
a ”normal and necessary” political activity. He further indicated that
none of the fifty-eight prosecution witnesses produced documentary
evidence of being coerced to contribute or lost a job because of fail-
ure to contribute. ”T he Commonwealth in offering their case against
the defendants,” the judge instructed the jury, ”have based their proof
largely upon circumstantial evidence. The humane presumption of
the law is against guilt, and though a conspiracy must ordinarily be
proven by circumstantial evidence, you must keep in mind that the
charge . . . must be proven beyond a reasonable doubt/'27

The jury, deliberating less than four hours, returned a verdict of
not guilty on all counts against all of the accused. Thus the long night-
mare, which ironically began two years to the day earlier with Guf-
fey’s Philadelphia Academy of Music address, closed. The trials pro-
vided a measure of vindication, but the damage had been done. The
events surrounding Margiotti’s charges ended a promising Democratic
reign in Harrisburg, destroyed several careers, and nearly sent several
others to prison. While Margiotti gained some revenge for the party's
refusal to endorse him for governor in 1938, none of the principals in
the dispute emerged victorious. For all three, the feud would continue.

V

The conclusion of the trials too, brought an end to the Harris-
burg phase of David Lawrence's life. He could return to his beloved
Pittsburgh relieved of the heavy burden he had carried for the past
two years. Throughout the ordeal Lawrence maintained his com-

Years of Trauma [>

posure, seldom revealing its effect on him. In one of the few moments
in which he dropped his guard, he told his friend Huck Fenrich, ”It’s
a terrible thing being indicted. It's the first thing you think of when
you wake up in the morning and the last thing you think of when
you go to bed at night.”28 In later life he almost never commented
on this dark period. Yet deep wounds were inflicted that remained
partially open for the rest of his life.

Although Lawrence seldom spoke directly of the trials, many as-
sociates recall incidents that showed that they were seldom far from
his conscious thoughts. His son Ierry, who was born just after the
first trial, recalled: ”I remember not talking about the trials specifi-
cally, but in conversations on other people's trials, his saying how
difficult it was and how horrible it was for my sisters and brothers,
the abuse they took at school from other kids. I remember my mother
talking about it. She was pregnant with me at the time and what a
tough experience it was on her. I think that's why he never forgave
Margiotti because of all the sadness involved in the thing.” The
younger Lawrence's reference to the trials of others helps to explain
his father's willingness to act as a character reference in many cases
involving civil as well as criminal issues. He served in such a ca-
pacity at least two dozen times throughout the remainder of his life.
”Even if it was someone he didn't like,” Walter Giesey explained. ”I
remember he appeared at Marjorie Matson’s trial and he didn't like
her. He also in that same week appeared in one for Burgess Acker-
mann . . . who was a real enemy of Lawrence; but he appeared to tes-
tify to his character. . . . I always thought that had some relationship to
the trouble he had had and having gone through that he understood.’’39

Lawrence's bitterness toward Margiotti carried with him all his
life. He considered Margiotti the most untrustworthy person he had
ever met, and he even rebuffed Margiotti’s attempt at a deathbed rec-
onciliation.3° Once, at a political rally, opponents threw gravel on
the stage. Lawrence became so livid that he had difficulty complet-
ing his talk, a rare break in composure for him.

Most political associates were aware of Lawrence's attitude and
were careful never to invite the two men to appear at a function at
the same time. But on one occasion during the 1950s, Frank Ambrose
accompanied Lawrence to an Italian Day picnic. ”We were sitting just
getting ready to eat dinner and Margiotti walked in and Lawrence
looked at me and said, ’Let’s get the hell out of here.’ So we left. Even
before we ate.” At another event, Lawrence found himself with Mar-
giotti at the speakers’ table. Monsignor Andres I. Pauley of St. Paul's
Cathedral, Margiotti’s pastor, was seated between them. The mon-

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158 <1 Don’t call me boss

signor decided to try to reconcile the two old enemies. He ”leaned
over to Lawrence and said, ‘You know, Charley and I have a contract.
He has agreed to keep me out of jail and I have contracted to keep
him out of hell.’ In a frosty voice, Lawrence replied, ‘Margiotti has
the easier job.’”31

Lawrence was not silent immediately upon learning of his ac-
quittal in 1940. At his first press conference he lashed out at Margi-
otti and Gufiey. ”For the second time, a judge and jury have definitely
given an answer to the calumny and lies spread . . . by the Margiot-
tis, the Gufleys and their slimy speech writers and press agents. . . .
This complete vindication of the Earle administration, my associates
and myself makes me feel very happy.” just ten days before the Penn-
sylvania primary, he told a gathering of seven thousand cheering par-
tisans that the two men ”came from the same mold. Their willing-
ness to deceive and destroy for their own selfish ends places them
in a class with whom no faction of the Democratic party will now
traffic.” For the next half hour Lawrence vented his anger. At times
his voice broke as he related the ordeal of the past two years, calling
the charges against him a ”cruel, unfair, indecent, malicious and un-
scrupulous attack.” The mention of Guf-fey’s name drew a chorus of
boos. Lawrence brought the house down in a standing, stamping, and
tearful ovation when he turned to the members of his family seated
in the front row. ”I asked Mrs. Lawrence to bring the children here
tonight. . . . The children have been subject by innocent playmates
to certain references to these false charges against their father. I wanted
them to come here tonight to impress on their young minds what
the real people think of their father. I've wanted all those weary hours
to be . . . back here among my own people, back among the people
of Allegheny County, back among the people I'm vain enough to say
have some affection for me—to come before you and tell my story.”
If a dry eye remained among the sympathetic crowd before, none could
be found at the conclusion of his talk.”

Lawrence's bitterness toward Margiotti certainly appears under-
standable and justified. The reasons for his vendetta against Guffey,
however, remain something of a mystery. Certainly the two men ex-
perienced the estrangement that frequently occurs when a student
begins to grow and threatens to eclipse the teacher. Lawrence's as-
cent to the state chainnan’s post and the top cabinet position in the
Earle administration gave him a voice at least equal to that of Guffey,
who resented the change. However, they managed to settle their dif-
ferences on several occasions. To be sure, Guf?fey’s intemperate Phila-
delphia speech in 1938 had touched off the ensuing scandals, but it

Years of Trauma l>

was Margiotti who had carried the ball. Lawrence had shown time
and again an uncanny ability to patch up differences, but he simply
could not accept what he considered Gufiey’s political disloyalty. He
remained blind to the fact that his own activities were counterpro-
ductive and actually destructive to him and the party. It was the most
obvious lack of political vision in his fifty-year career.

For ten days Lawrence traveled western Pennsylvania in a fran-
tic attempt to upset Guffey’s renomination bid. His addresses cen-
tered almost wholly on the personality of the senator and were his
most vitriolic ever. Guffey, as he saw it, had brought down the party
in 1938, had jeopardized Lawrence's freedom during the last two years,
and now threatened his leadership across the state. Guffey responded
to one of Lawrence's attacks by saying he hoped that it was ”a result
of momentary hysteria following the strain of his trial,” for it came
with ”ill grace” from a former protégé. He further pointed out that
he had appeared as a witness in the trial and contributed $1000 to
the Lawrence defense fund. The party chairman countered with a
harshness that was becoming common. ”]oe Guffey did not contrib-
ute one cent to any defense fund for me. Apparently the hysteria is
in the Guffey camp. He was not a character witness for me. He was
called like a number of others to testify about a fictitious meeting
in Philadelphia at the last Democratic National Convention/'33

Lawrence's preoccupation with the recent trials and the Margiotti-
Guffey duo had left him unable to concentrate on election strategy
and placed a serious strain on the operation of the party. Contribu-
tions declined, and party workers, lacking leadership, divided their
efforts between the two competing candidates. Lawrence's brief but
harsh attacks on Guffey made it clear to the voters that their primary
vote was a choice for one or the other. A reconciliation was out of
the question.

The temporary euphoria Lawrence felt upon his acquittal came
crashing to the ground on 23 April 1940. Senator Guffey defeated the
organization candidate, Walter Iones, by more than Ioo,ooo votes in
a light turnout. Guffey carried nearly every municipality in the state
and won a surprisingly easy 5o,ooo-vote victory in Philadelphia. Law-
rence managed to save face by claiming a solid victory in Allegheny
County, but Guffey had won the battle and made it clear that his
plans did not include Lawrence. ‘'1 shall proceed at once to reorganize
our forces for a victorious campaign by eliminating elements of dis-
cord and strengthening our organization wherever necessary.” His
chief press supporter, 1. David Stern, publisher of the Philadelphia
Record made Guffey’s intention even clearer with a postelection edi-

159

Biographical Sketches
of Key People in Lawrence's Life

ANNE X. ALPERN. Pittsburgh city solicitor during the Lawrence ad-
ministration.

FRANK ”BANGY” AMBROSE. Lawrence's long-tirne, always available
friend. Held a number of minor political appointments.

GUY K. BARD. Replaced Charles Margiotti as state attorney general
during the last months of the Earle administration.

IosEPH BARR. Lawrence's handpicked successor as mayor of Pittsburgh.
Barr played a key role in the Democratic organization during his
long term as Pennsylvania state senator.

MICHAEL BENEDUM. Wealthy oil operator. Became the chief financial
angel of the Democratic party in 1933. Provided continuous sup-
port throughout the Lawrence years.

GENEVIEVE BLATT. One of the earliest active female members of the
Democratic party in Pennsylvania. Served as secretary of common-
wealth affairs and judge of the Commonwealth Court of Penn-
sylvania. She defeated Michael Musmanno for the party nomina-
tion for the U.S. Senate in 1964.

SPURGEON BOWSER. President, Pioneer Materials Company of Kittan-
ning. Supplied road materials to the state. Allegedly paid kick-
backs. Claimed that Lawrence extorted $5000 from him.

WILLIAM I. BRENNEN. Attorney and Democratic County Chairman,
19o1—19. Lawrence's political mentor.

AL CoNWAY. Democratic chairman of Pittsburgh's Nineteenth Ward
for nearly twenty years.

IAMES COYNE. Republican party leader, 1915-33, and a state senator.
Business and personal associate of Lawrence's, 1924-66.

HARMAR DENNY. Republican candidate for mayor of Pittsburgh 1941,
1945. Descendant of Pittsburgh's first mayor, Ebenezer Denny. xvii

160 <1 Don't call me boss

torial. ”David L. Lawrence the Democratic State Chairman, who op-
posed Senator Gufley, stands today as an inept politician who let fac-
tional hatred and personal ambition override and completely submerge
his duty to his party. . . . His resignation is in order forthwith/'34 With
the handwriting clearly on the wall, Lawrence announced that he
would resign as state chairman effective at the state party reorganiza-
tion meeting on 2o Iune.

At the meeting he kept his promise but managed to strike a deal
that eventually gave him full control in the state. Guffey wanted
Lawrence out and Meridith Meyers, a Lewistown publisher, as his
replacement. Lawrence, supported by a small but powerful group in-
cluding Kelly, McCloskey, and Iohn Kane, Allegheny County com-
missioner, originally rejected Meyers. After a heated two-hour discus-
sion, the two factions eventually reached an accord: Guffey would
back Lawrence for the vacant post of Democratic national commit-
teeman,- in return Lawrence agreed to accept Meyers as state chair-
man and hinted that he would back Gufiey in the general election.35
The agreement severely restricted Lawrence's role in state politics
for a time, but gave him a voice at the national level that was to be-
come increasingly important in the next two decades.

At the conclusion of the meeting, Lawrence returned to Pittsburgh
to resume active participation in the Harris-Lawrence Insurance Com-
pany. He also intended, he informed his old friend Art Rooney, to
spend more time with his family. The Lawrence political career ap-
peared to be in eclipse. While he had been named a national com-
mitteeman, for the first time in two decades he held no party chair-
manship at any level. The battle with Margiotti and Guffey had
stripped him of his base of support.

Yet the next two years were happy ones for Lawrence. Shom of
many political obligations, he kept his pledge to spend a greater
amount of time with his family. The home at 355 South Aiken Ave-
nue virtually swelled with children and adults. His two daughters,
Mary and Anna Mae, had completed schooling at Mt. Mercy Academy
and were attending Marywood College in Scranton and Trinity Col-
lege in Washington, D.C., respectively. Brennen and David Leo, both
teenagers, were enrolled in Central Catholic High School and, along
with their infant brother, Jerry, lived at home. In addition there were
several of the relatives who populated the Lawrence household over
the years. Alyce, delighted to have her husband home for the first
time in years, presided over the home with charm and serenity.

Tragedy struck on 19 April 1942 and changed the Lawrence house-
hold forever. Ioe Barr who later became Lawrence's choice to succeed

Years of Trauma l>

him as mayor of Pittsburgh, was present on the fateful night. ”T he
boys had been playing ball over at the old Shadyside field and that
evening they all came over to the Lawrence's home and he fed them.
Then we went over to the Athletic Club for dinner, David and Alyce,
myself and my wife. After dinner we went out to their house to play
some cards. There was this phone call. I answered it. The business
manager of [a] hospital wanted to know if the boys were home. I asked
Dave. He said the boys were probably upstairs playing pingpong or
cards. Pretty soon the phone rang again. The caller said, ’Are you sure
the boys are home? There's been an accident.’ That's when we found
out the car was gone/'36

It happened in an instant. Seven teen—aged boys returned to the
Lawrence home, their informal clubhouse, after losing the opening
game of the local sandlot season. In spite of their loss they were pleased
with their effort and proud of their new uniforms, their first in sev-
eral years. The Lawrences fed them sandwiches, milk, and cookies,
then left for a dinner engagement. Sometime after 6:00 P.M. the boys
decided to take a joy ride in the Lawrence family car. They wandered
around, as young boys often do, and eventually found themselves on
U.S. Route 19 seven miles north of Zelienople, approximately twenty-
five miles from Pittsburgh. Somewhere along the way they changed
drivers. Brennen Lawrence moved to the back and Iohn Thomas, nine-
teen, got behind the wheel. The two Lawrence brothers sat sandwiched
in the middle of the back seat between Iack Clinton and Bill Schaub.

As the carefree group began their descent of a long hill, Thomas
decided to pass several slower-moving cars on the two-lane highway.
Iust as he passed the lead auto, an oncoming truck appeared from
around the bend. In his haste to move back into his own lane, Thomas
apparently lost control of the car. It careened off the road twice, once
on the left, once on the right, then it spun around and veered back-
ward, smashing into a huge tree, rear end first. The two boys seated
on the outside in the back suffered head and internal injuries and were
listed in serious condition by the hospital. The three boys in the front
received moderate but not serious injuries. All five recovered. Bren-
nen was killed instantly. His brother David Leo, Ir., died a short time
later en route to the Elwood City Hospital.37

When they received the news, David and Alyce Lawrence reacted
as most parents would at such a time. At first they could not grasp
the enormity of the loss. They suffered a blow from which neither
would fully recover. It would forever change their lives and the lives
of those around them and had its effect on the future of the city of
Pittsburgh and of Pennsylvania.

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162 <1 Don't call me boss

Somehow they managed to struggle through the four days between
the accident and the funeral. David refused to attend the public view-
ing held in the family home but remained upstairs in his room. Jimmy
Kirk, Frank Ambrose, and Primo Columbus took turns visiting him
late at night to accompany him on long walks. He said little —he just
walked.

On the day of the funeral, neither Lawrence nor his wife attended
the services at the cemetery. They went home, and a short time later
David left the house and went to Democratic headquarters in the city.
”W hen I went in,” Frank Ambrose remembered vividly, ”]immy Kirk
pointed to the ofi-ice and said, ’VVhy don't you ask him if he wants
to play a game of cards. . . . I think it would relax him.’ So I opened
the door and said, How about a game, chief?’ And he said, ’Yes, come
on in, fine.’ And we sat down to play cards. We played four hours that
Saturday afternoon, and never a word did he say about the kids, and
of course neither did I/'33

In their search for answers and the strength to continue, David
and Alyce naturally drew upon their individual personalities. That
their behavior took divergent paths likely made the healing process
even more diflicult. Unfortunately, they were unable or unwilling
to lean on each other for comfort and support. They suffered their
grief independently.

Alyce Lawrence surrounded herself with even more people, open-
ing her home to all sorts of relatives down on their luck. Her daugh-
ter Anna Mae transferred to the University of Pittsburgh to be near
her. Alyce filled her life as much as possible with friends, swimming,
horseback riding, and other activities. Her grandson remembers that
even when she was older ”she would take us to friends of hers who
had swimming pools and she would go with us to Schenley Park to
ride horses . . . always the accent would be on enjoying yourself and
getting the most out of life that you could. My grandmother was sort
of a sporty person.”39 She also began to drink more frequently, some-
thing that eventually became a serious source of friction between her
and her husband, who seldom drank at all.

David Lawrence, needing always to feel in control of his life, re-
sponded to the tragedy as one might expect. He threw himself even
more vehemently into his work. Iust two months after the accident,
he actively sought and won reelection to the state chairman's post,
which he had relinquished two years earlier. Rita Wilson Kane de-
scribed him as a workaholic during a three-year period following the
accident. A few days after the boys died, ”Lawrence went to a politi-
cal meeting in another county. People said, ‘How could he do this?

Years of Trauma l>

He must have ice water in his veins.’ It was his way of trying to deaden
in his mind what the children's death did to him . . . just to keep work-
ing, keeping active, and keeping his brain going.” Lawrence later ad-
vised his own protégé Genevieve Blatt to follow the same procedure
when she lost a brother in World War II. ”]ust keep working Gen.
Keep at it.”4°

Lawrence also dealt with his grief as he had reacted to the un-
pleasant trial experience. He attempted to suppress it, although the
tragedy was apparently never far from his consciousness. He almost
never spoke of it—not to friends, relatives, or political acquaintances.
But on two occasions ten years apart, he happened to be in the Ze-
lienople vicinity and pointed out to companions the exact spot of the
accident. He also kept a photograph of the boys, along with that of
Billy Brennen, on his desk for the rest of his life, and he never missed
the annual ritual of visiting the boys’ graves after Christmas dinner.
Always afterward, he sent sympathy cards to other parents whose
children died suddenly, whether by accident or illness. Finally, many
associates attribute his great interest in a strong highway safety pro-
gram during his gubernatorial years to the 1942 accident.

Although he never expressed it, Lawrence no doubt felt some guilt
at not having spent more time with his sons. Immediately after their
death, he nearly smothered the surviving son, Ierry, with care. He
had a nurse until he started school who watched him like a hawk.
Even beginning school did not relieve Ierry of the burden of constant
surveillance. For the first five years he attended elementary school
on the campus of Mt. Mercy College. None of the neighborhood chil-
dren went there, and Ierry, finding it hard to relate to them, was very
lonely. At the end of fifth grade, he moved to St. Paul's Cathedral
School, where his mother's sister was teaching, rather than to St. Law-
rence’s, where his brothers and sisters had gone. Even later his fa-
ther continued to watch over him: Ierry attended La Salle College
in Philadelphia, where, several associates reported, David Lawrence's
political friends could keep an eye on him. It was during that period
that Ierry received a highly publicized speeding ticket. His father re-
fused to intervene on his behalf. When the ticket was ruled invalid
because of a technicality, Lawrence ordered his son to surrender his
license voluntarily to the state police.“ It was suspended for a brief
period.

As Ierry grew older, his father carefully nurtured a close relation-
ship with him and later his grandson David Donahoe. It was as if he
were attempting to make up for the time he had missed with his de-
ceased sons. ”He made a great point of taking me along with him,”

163

164 <1 Don’t call me boss

Ierry noted, ”traveling with him as much as possible.” ”It was great
fun,” David Donahoe added of his own experience a decade later.
”When he was governor, I spent summers with him in Harrisburg.
He traveled to various parts of the state and we went to fairs, to
funerals, to political gatherings and on tours. I also accompanied him
to Pirate games and those sorts of things. We were together a great
deal of time/'42

The four years between April 1938, when Gufiey first suggested
that illegal activities occurred in ”high places” in the Earle adminis-
tration, and April 1942 were no doubt the most difficult in Lawrence's
life. His political career appeared to be on the brink of extinction,
and the devastating accident threatened the stability of his family.
The three years that followed were indeed the lowest point in his
life. He kept busy, but according to numerous associates, his heart
did not seem to be in it. The thrill of the political battle had lost its
edge. It all, somehow, did not seem as important anymore. Something
was needed to provide new direction and motivation to his life. The
opportunity struck in March 1945.

Policies, Principles, and Procedures

Numerous models have been proposed to describe mayoral behav-
ior and predict its impact on the city. These include power-brokering
mayors, those who build coalitions, public entrepreneurs, policy ex-
perts, and those who somehow ”muddle through” most decision-
making situations. Another model relies on personality as an expla-
nation of the behavior and success or failure of specific urban leaders:
Fiorello La Guardia of New York and Anton Cermak of Chicago are
two examples of mayors who dominated their city through the force
of personality. Each model by itself, however, presents an overly
narrow picture of the activities, forces, and behaviors of big-city
mayors. Metropolitan leaders often employ a variety of models, for
example, acting sometimes as a power broker and sometimes as a
public entrepreneur to accomplish a desired goal. Muddling through
appears to be the prime mode of action in still other situations. ”A
good mayor,” according to one source, ”and an effective one, is a prag-
matic guy who. . . . faces the issues which come up and takes small,
sure steady steps to deal with them based on the best information
he can get and the difficult realities of the situation/'1 The models,
rather than being exclusive appear to complement one another. In
his actions as mayor Lawrence relied on a combination of these meth-
ods, as well as on a broad coalition of public and private groups, to
accomplish his goals.

However, the dominant personality of the man was also an im-
portant factor. By the time of Lawrence's enforced removal from state
politics in 1940, he had been involved in public life for nearly three
decades. He had achieved considerable success, although he never held
elective office, and had sufiered terrible indignities. He thoroughly
enjoyed his role as teacher and lobbyist in negotiating passage of the

165

166 4 Don't call me boss

Little New Deal but was disillusioned that the voters had rejected
his party in spite of the impressive legislative package. The treason,
in his view, of Charles Margiotti and the feud with Ioseph Guffey
strengthened a somewhat cynical View of the motivations of his fel-
low actors in the political world. He was fifty-one years of age, and
it appeared that he might be content to spend the rest of his years
as a behind-the-scenes power broker. The period from 1942 through
194 5 afforded him some opportunity to reflect on his past life and con-
sider future options.

It was an opportunity he almost certainly ignored, for David Law-
rence was not introspective. He seldom talked about his problems
or his plans or any philosophy of government, and never about his
own past career. He was an action man. ”Lawrence, of course, had
ideas. And he was his own man. Nobody . . . ever controlled him or
manipulated him or anything like that. He was definitely . . . going
to do what he thought he should do. . . . He was an active politician,
he was out in the neighborhood. . . . That didn't mean they [citizens]
were always satisfied with him, but they knew . . . it was yes or no;
and if it was no, it was no,- and if it was yes, it was going to be done.
He was that breed of politician.” Only near the end of his career did
Lawrence feel the need to wax philosophical about politics, and in
each case it was in the role of a teacher passing on information to
a prized pupil. Rosemary Plessett, who frequently drove Lawrence
to political events, and his grandson, who often accompanied him
on official trips, spent many hours alone with him. Occasionally, both
remarked, Lawrence became expansive about his career, expounding
on his ideas about government or society. ”I was very interested in
politics,” Plessett explained. ”I would ask a lot of questions. ‘What
is power? How is it used? Who gets it?’ That sort of thing. And, he
had a need to be a teacher. . . . He'd go on for half an hour. . . . He
was fascinating/'2 For young Donahoe the discussions roamed far
and wide, illustrating a broad range of interests in the normally reti-
cent Lawrence.

In the early years . . . the talk was mostly about athletics, fam-
ily. Then . . . as I travelled with him and became not so much a
grandson . . . but a companion, we talked about politics to
some extent; school, what young people were thinking and the
attitudes, some of which he couldn't readily understand. But I
was interested in national affairs, for which he provided some
insight. In the later years we talked about musical theater
which we had a mutual interest in. When we were in New

Policies, Principles, and Procedures [> 167

York we would go and see musicals. . . . Since I was not as in-
terested in athletics as he was, he . . . bent over to find things
that I was interested in, including books that we had both

read. . . . After he had left the govemor’s office, we talked about
the future—the future of the city and of the nation. . . . He was
always thinking ahead and trying to visualize what would
come even after he was gone.3

It is instructive to note that the only individuals with whom
Lawrence felt free to discuss his thoughts on politics, government,
and other issues important to him were both much younger than he,
held him in deepest awe, and were uninvolved in his day-to—day
political life. They were ”safe” disciples to whom he could pass on
his knowledge and ideas without fear of betrayal. They willingly gave
of their time to be in his company, asking little in return. He re-
sponded, coincidentally, by giving more of his inner self than at any
other time. With his political or governmental associates, however,
Lawrence remained guarded, seldom offering a glimpse at his inner
thoughts.

To say that Lawrence was reticent with associates does not mean
that he was without ideas or a guiding set of philosophical principles.
As was noted earlier, his family and the experiences of his youth pro-
vided him with a solid base upon which to build a political philoso-
phy. Aid for the less fortunate, support for organized labor, a strong
belief in the work ethic, and a suspicion of the wealthy coupled with
a fundamental acceptance of the capitalist system, as he understood
it, became the bedrock upon which he built his political career. In
addition, by the time he returned to Pittsburgh in 1940, he had spent
nearly a third of a century in politics. His early career in Pittsburgh
and his distasteful but important term in Harrisburg had exposed him
to many individuals and ideas. His willingness to compromise, his
pragmatic approach to politics and government, an unquestioning ac-
ceptance of the two-party system, and an intense dislike for what he
termed ”political opportunists” all developed during this period. Fi-
nally, an association with the Roosevelt administration and in par-
ticular the liberal Democrats who gathered around the president crys-
tallized his ideas into the legislative package that became the Little
New Deal.

”Dave Lawrence was a marvelous, . . . strong New Dealer and he
took compassionate positions, and labor knew that he supported them,
and they supported him.” The massive public works programs
launched by the New Deal, the labor legislation embodied in the

168 <1 Don't call me boss

Wagner Act, emergency relief provided to the indigent by the Federal
Emergency Relief Act (FERA), and slum clearance and subsidized
housing construction were all enthusiastically supported by Lawrence
during his period as secretary of the Commonwealth. Each program,
as he saw it, provided services or assistance to individuals unable to
help themselves. He later added to his reputation as a backer of lib-
eral causes by his early support of the controversial civil rights plank
in the 1948 Democratic party platform. Two years later in Michigan
he urged the passage of a national fair employment practices act. ”In
civil rights, the government of this country has an immediate duty,
one which will affect not only our material might but our moral might
as well. No nation committed to freedom, democracy, and liberty,
as we are, can long fight its enemies without first living what it is
protecting.” Other causes that earned his quick endorsement included
women's equality (1944), Voting rights for eighteen-year-old citizens
(1946), and the establishment of a Iewish homeland (1946). He further
showed his interest in international affairs in March 1946 when he
criticized Winston Churchill's famous ”Iron Curtain” speech as ”in-
temperate and dangerous.” ”It will take a great deal of patience to
undo the harm that Churchill has done. Likewise, it will take great
patience to undo the harm that Russian treaty-breaking has done. . . .
America must not tie itself to British imperialism nor Russian Com-
munism but must take a strong stand as international mediator and
peacemaker/'4

Lawrence not only endorsed liberal issues but often initiated ac-
tion to support these causes. During the 1935-39 legislative sessions,
he devoted nearly every waking hour to pushing the Little New Deal
through the General Assembly. During the same period he was re-
sponsible for extending the franchise to uncounted numbers of Penn-
sylvanians by backing legislation to reform voter registration laws
and encouraging minority citizens to register and vote. Democratic
platforms, for which Lawrence had major responsibility, always in-
cluded items to appeal to particular minority groups, which he also
included in the distribution of the spoils of victory—jobs. He was
directly responsible for the election of the city's first black judge and
councilman, and he appointed the first black magistrate when he be-
came mayor. In addition, as mayor he backed the passage of the city's
fair housing laws—the second city in the nation to do so.

He attempted to bring women and youth into the political pro-
cess by encouraging the development of young political organizations
and supporting its activists for office. Genevieve Blatt, who became
a protégé of Lawrence's, explained that in the early 1930s he was more

Policies, Principles, and Procedures l>

than a cheerleader. ”Although he was practically running the state
government, he would spend hours at meetings of Young Democrats,
some of whom were not altogether bright, good-humoredly helping
them Work out their own program in an intelligent way. He didn't
seem at all stuffy or pompous, and I couldn't say that for all the cabi-
net members I ran into in those days.” Ambitious women such as
Blatt, Anne Alpem, and Grace Sloan could count on his support and
encouragement in their bids for elective office. Each of his terms of
office in Pittsburgh and Harrisburg was characterized by the presence
of bright, aggressive women in both elective and appointive posts.
He was the one man of all the political leaders, said Rita Wilson
Kane, register of wills, who recognized the value of women in poli-
tics and gave them big jobs.5

Finally, he demonstrated his support for the Zionist cause by
spending a considerable amount of his time raising funds to support
Pittsburgh's bonds for Israel program. He once brought the house down
at a testimonial dinner honoring him for his efforts by beginning his
address with the greeting, ”Fellow Iews.”

The characterization of Lawrence as a liberal, however, is apt to
bring quick disclaimers from friends and opponents alike. Many, of
course, point out that all his actions were designed to aid his party.
Sponsorship of the New Deal and liberal causes were simply good
politics during the second third of the twentieth century, and Law-
rence was too skilled a politician not to realize its benefits. ”It went
beyond simple liberalism and patronage. . . . It was a combination . . .
the typical New Deal coalition/'6

Lawrence's adoption of a liberal view, however, always remained
tempered by a strong fiscal conservatism and a pragmatic outlook.
While his own modest economic background produced a compassion
for those too poor to meet their own needs, it also resulted in what
several associates classified as a tight-fisted money policy. Regard-
less of the value of the program, he always wanted to know where
the money was to come from. He was ”emotionally opposed” to deficit
spending. His daughter observed: ”You couldn't classify him as an
ADAer. I remember when the ADA [Americans for Democratic Ac-
tion] was first coming out. There were a lot of things the ADA was
doing that he wasn't happy with. He would make comments like, ’Oh,
he's an ADAer’ or ‘that sounds like an ADA philosophy.”’ Lawrence's
liberalism was much too practical for him to approve of that activist
organization. Even when he was receiving an award from the ADA
in 1963, he lectured that their views must be tempered by political
reality. Politics, he told them ”in no Way infringes upon my liberal

169

Xviii

<1 Biographical Sketches

RICHARDSON DILWORTH. Philadelphia district attorney, city treasurer,
two-terrn mayor.

GEORGE EARLE. Scion of an old Philadelphia family. Ambassador to
Austria, 1933-34. Elected governor of Pennsylvania in 1934.

ANDREW ”HUcK” FENRICH. Lawrence friend and North Side ward off]-
cial. He was the unofficial patronage chief in Pittsburgh under
Lawrence.

WALTER G1EsEY. Mayor's executive secretary, 1949-56. Lawrence's clos-
est aide during his term as governor and as chairman of the Presi-
dent's Committee on Equal Opportunity in Housing.

IosEPHY GUEEEY. Democratic party benefactor from western Pennsyl-
vania. Served as county and state party chairman. Considered to
be the head of the state party during the early 1930s. U.S. senator,
1934-46. Federal patronage chief for Pennsylvania, 1933-36.

FRANK A. HARRIS. Partner in the Lawrence-Harris insurance firm.
Served as county chairman of the Allegheny County Republican
organization. Was a state senator and key committee chairman
during the entire Earle administration.

IOHN HENRY. Pittsburgh attorney. Early Democratic opponent of the
Lawrence organization.

THOMAS HESTER. Democratic jury commissioner, 192 5-29. Strong op-
ponent of Lawrence and the Democratic organization, 1931-35.

LoRENA HICKOK. Appointed by Harry Hopkins to investigate the opera-
tion of the WPA in Pennsylvania.

IOHN HUsToN. A Republican who joined the Democratic landslide in
1934. Subsequently rewarded by party support for office of regis-
trar of wills. Huston became strong intraparty opponent of Law-
rence's. He was eventually purged from the organization.

K. LEROY IRVIS. Public relations secretary to the Pittsburgh Urban
League; supported by Lawrence for assistant district attorney in
1956; elected to state House of Representatives in 1950.

EDDIE ]oNEs. Public safety director in the Republican administration
of Mayor Charles Kline; Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph reporter. Be-
came Democratic campaign writer in 1931. Served as secretary of
labor and industry during the first half of the Earle administration.

IOHN KANE. President of the pressmen’s union in Pittsburgh. Elected
to city council in 1933; served five terms as Allegheny county com-
missioner. Considered to be Lawrence's counterpart at the coun-
ty level and labo1’s spokesman in high Democratic circles.

IACK KELLY. Philadelphia millionaire, father of Grace Kelly. Kelly be-
came an important force in eastern and statewide Democratic
politics. Served as Philadelphia city chairman, 1934-40.

17O <1 Don't call me boss

tendencies. On the contrary, politics helped bring into being ideas
and proposals . . . converting liberal platforms into law/'7

While he brought no clearly articulated philosophy of government
or ideas about the ideal structure of society to his own activism, Law-
rence preferred to be guided by his instincts and a well-integrated set
of values. He frequently advised Genevieve Blatt, ”Do what seems
natural.” His oft-repeated phrase, ”The best politics is good govem-
ment,” was more than a slogan for him. While he led the way in the
implementation of popular legislation and reform measures through-
out his career, he also campaigned for unpopular action, such as new
taxation and open housing legislation, because he believed it to be
necessary. The voters, he firmly believed, would not fail to reward
such ”right action” at the ballot box. He was astounded in 1962, for
example, when voters chose Republican William Scranton over his
handpicked successor. The Lawrence administration had produced
an impressive package of social welfare legislation, remained relatively
free of scandal, and had balanced the budget. The party, in his view,
deserved to be returned to office. His surprise when the voters re-
jected his candidate reflects a simple, almost naive view of the world
of politics. He continued to believe, after fifty years in political life,
that ”good government” would produce its own rewards.

Clearly the key to Lawrence's beliefs about politics and govem-
ment lies not in his written statements—he wrote little, and even
the voluminous govemor’s papers carry few useful clues to his thought
process. According to his executive secretary Walter Giesey, ”he was
a telephoner. If you could have taped all his telephone calls you could
have gotten some measure of the man.” His prepared speeches give
some indication of his attitudes, but they carmot be accepted verba-
tim; they were written by his aides, Robin and Giesey. ”What you
needed was to get the words after the prepared text was finished. . . .
Lawrence was always better after he finished with the text/'8

Similarly, the best source of infonnation about Lawrence's leader-
ship quality and orientation on issues on the eve of his first election
as mayor of Pittsburgh is his own behavior. A number of character-
istics stand out.

Perhaps most important among the forces that drove Lawrence
was an almost fierce sense of duty. He worked harder and longer than
anyone else, only partially because such diligence usually produced
victory. Victory to him brought only momentary satisfaction. The
lasting reward occurred because office holding enabled one to attain
one’s goals. Compromises and delays were to be expected, but they
should not prevent one from fulfilling one’s objectives. In all his ad-

Policies, Principles, and Procedures l>

mjnistrative ofiices Lawrence frequently implemented unpopular poli-
cies if he believed them to be consistent with what he saw as his
duty to his constituency. His policies on smoke control, taxation, and
labor negotiations, among others, all generated considerable opposi-
tion during his mayoralty. Several were potentially disastrous to his
political career, yet he followed the policy he thought correct regard-
less of political consequences.

Department and cabinet heads were expected to follow suit in
carrying out their own duties no matter how difficult or distasteful.
When Lawrence assumed office as mayor in 1946, he informed depart-
ment heads that he would not tolerate interdepartmental disputes
and rivalries that jeopardized the city's interests. ”We are working
for the same emp1oyer—the people. . . . We'll work or get off the job.”
He delivered a similar warning at the start of each administration
and in his address to cabinet heads when he assumed the office of
governor in 1959. The message, according to many sources, was not
idle rhetoric intended for public consumption?

A second trait of Lawrence, often erroneously believed to have
developed after 194 5, was his ability to separate political interests from
governmental responsibilities. He had seen during the Earle years the
harmful effects of uncontrolled political ambition. Cabinet leaders
such as Margiotti and Edward N. Iones had been selected for their
political efforts rather than their ability to contribute to the welfare
of the state. Departments became a morass of political infighting
and intrigue. In contrast, Lawrence's efforts to push the legislative
program through the General Assembly, while certainly partisan,
remained relatively free of political maneuvering. Their success was
due in part to Lawrence's insistence that legislators subordinate po-
litical ambitions to the larger common goal of passing the entire
legislative package. In Pittsburgh, while operating as the behind-the-
scenes political boss, he admittedly expected that victorious candi-
dates would help build the party by turning the patronage machinery
over to the party heads. Beyond that, however, elected officials were
free to operate in the manner that they saw fit as long as their actions
were judged to be in the best interests of the electorate. Even Wil-
liam McNair was given eighteen months of relative freedom before
Lawrence decided to intervene.

When he became mayor of Pittsburgh, Lawrence turned his abil-
ity to separate government and politics into policy. To accommodate
this principle he adopted a dual hiring policy for the city. Rank and
file workers, laborers, non—civil service appointees, clerical help, and
police and firemen were selected through the normal patronage pro-

171

172 <1 Don’t call me boss

cess. Candidates for office were selected on the basis of their ability
to achieve party harmony. Ability and training were of secondary
importance. Most policy-making officials, bureau and department
heads, and authority directors, however, were hired on the basis of
education and experience. The practice brought an exceptional num-
ber of highly qualified people into policy-making positions in city
government.

A third quality, Lawrence's willingness to welcome experts into
his administration, no doubt grew out of the great respect he had for
them, particularly those holding advanced degrees. He always felt a
strong sense of inadequacy about his own limited formal education
and often appeared slightly ill-at-ease in the company of a number
of highly educated people. He welcomed lawyers and educators into
the party and the government and supported political figures such
as Richardson Dilworth, Ioseph Clark, and Adlai Stevenson. ”It was
brains,” Genevieve Blatt pointed out. ”He was always on the lookout
for someone he thought had the brains to be a good government offi-
cial.”1° Brains, Blatt correctly noted, were associated in Lawrence's
mind with a proper education. Dilworth and Clark, not coinciden-
tally, attended Ivy League colleges, a fact that added to their luster
for Lawrence.

Consistent with the high regard in which he held education were
the educational reforms he helped initiate throughout his career:
teacher tenure and training reforms in 1937, community-supported
educational television in Pittsburgh in 19 53, and statewide school
district reorganization in 1960. Lawrence was aware of his preoccupa-
tion. ”When I mention education first, you might conclude that I at-
tach the highest priority to that area. And you would be right/'1 1 Edu-
cation, he argued, was the foundation of both an enlightened society
and a properly functioning community.

The ultimate result for the city of Pittsburgh and the state of
Pennsylvania was threefold. First, Lawrence surrounded himself with
technical and administrative experts and gave them freedom to per-
form their jobs without undue interference. Second, his reliance on
nonpolitical personnel at many policy-making levels served to insu-
late much of the municipal and state government from the vagaries
of politics. Because many of the bureau heads had numerous outside
job opportunities, they could demand that their departments remain
isolated from patronage hiring and other well-known political pres-
sures. Lawrence willingly acquiesced. The semi-independent authori-
ties in Pittsburgh, such as the redevelopment and housing authori-
ties in particular, enjoyed a remarkable freedom from politics.

Policies, Principles, and Procedures > 173

Finally, the talent around Lawrence would have produced few
benefits had he been unwilling or unable to learn from them. Such,
fortunately was not the case. As mayor, for example, he initially had
almost no concept of the complexity of the urban redevelopment task
he was about to undertake. Shortly before his election he visited
Mayor La Guardia in New York city for advice. ”What are you here
for?” La Guardia snapped in his well-known abrupt manner. "I'm run-
ning for mayor of Pittsburgh,” Lawrence replied. ”He looked up at me,”
Lawrence recalled, ”and he squatted in his little chair and said, ’you’re
a god-damned fool.’ Well, I said, ‘I didn't come here to be lectured.
I came here to get some advice.’ So he turned me over to Bob Moses.”
There is no record of the conversation between Lawrence and the ir-
repressible Moses, but Lawrence later referred to it as the beginning
of his education in municipal management. That education never
stopped: Lawrence was open to new ideas all his life. Aldo Colautti
knew Lawrence only as an older man, in his sixties and seventies.
”The thing that struck me about him was that he seemed to be more
receptive to changes in federal or state policies in, for example civil
rights, than many of the younger people about him.”12

A fourth element that Lawrence brought to the administration
of the city in 194 5 may best be described as leadership style, which
affected most of his staff. His no-nonsense approach to government
and politics stamped both as serious business, with little time for
frivolity. There was not a minute of the day when he was not occupied,
and his time was compartmentalized into politics, government, fam-
ily, and leisure. The first two required approximately twelve to fif-
teen hours per day on the average, and three hours were reserved for
the latter two. The four compartments, moreover, were highly orga-
nized and almost never overlapped. His work day was organized into
fifteen-minute appointments, during which he expected a succinct,
precise presentation. For his part, he expected to give an immediate
answer. Then he would terminate the meeting with his customary
handclap or rapping of the ring on the desk. Many people left the
mayor's office with the impression that Lawrence was brusque, even
rude, but nearly everyone received the same treatment.”

As might be expected in one so highly organized, punctuality
was part of his style, and it became almost an obsession with him.
Offices were expected to open on time and workers to report promptly.
People who kept him waiting felt his swift and certain wrath. In 19 58,
in perhaps the most extreme example of his insistence on prompt-
ness, he had a nearly permanent falling-out with his gubernatorial
running mate, Iohn Morgan Davis. Davis, his wife, and three chil-

174 <1 Don’t call me boss

dren joined Lawrence on a western campaign swing and managed to
appear at every joint speaking engagement a few minutes late. One
evening Lawrence arrived at the court house in Kane for an eight
o'clock speaking engagement. Davis, true to form, arrived around 8:15
P.M. ”You’re late,” Lawrence roared at him. ”I’m only fifteen minutes
late,” Davis replied. ”You’re fifteen minutes too goddam late,” Law-
rence responded. With that he walked off the platform and ordered
his son to call the state committee. ”Get him a staff. I can't travel
with him/'14 The two men remained on uneasy terms for the entire
Lawrence administration.

The final personal characteristic that contributed to Lawrence's
success as mayor came from years of involvement in politics. By 194 5
he had developed a sharp ability to remain close to the electorate.
Whether through his well-publicized love of sports, a malady com-
mon to most Pittsburghers, his down-home speaking style, or the at-
tention he paid to political workers and the voters, a strong bond
was beginning to develop. Genevieve Blatt described him as ”a true
Pittsburgher, of the people.” He became a master of the off-the-cuff
statement after the formal address: the ”now I'm going to give you
the real story” type of address. Political crowds, mostly Democrats
by 194 5, reveled in this seemingly spontaneous informality in a mostly
formal man. In addition, the attention he paid to political workers
continued to pay handsome dividends. Hospital and home visits to
workers or their families, attendance at funerals, weddings, first com-
munion celebrations, bar mitzvahs, and ward-level political rallies —
all these signaled Lawrence as a man who cared about one’s political
effort. Workers usually responded with increased efforts and a strong
attachment to ”the chief.” Finally, Lawrence's background as a self-
made man and his lack of pretension enhanced his image in this work-
ers’ city. Seemingly insignificant practices strengthened the relation-
ship. For example, although he used a driver during his term as mayor,
he almost never rode m the back seat unless accompanied by another
rider. It became common knowledge around the Bloomfield-Garfield
area that the rear seat in the moming was reserved for cleaning women
whom he happened to encounter on his way to work. His mayoral
auto was always a simple sedan several years old. When he become
governor, he canceled an order for a new limousine placed by the
Leader administration, preferring instead a six-year-old auto that had
done more than IO0,000 miles.15

Pittsburgh's perception of ”Davey” as ”one of us” evolved from more
than his commuting habits. A unique ability to interact on a com-
mon level with people regardless of their social background was per-

Policies, Principles, and Procedures l>

haps his most important political asset. Corporate presidents such
as Henry Hillman and Edgar Kaufmann, technical specialists such as
Wallace Richards and I. Hope Alexander, political associates such
as Huck Fenrich and Al Conway, and many individual voters com-
mented on this rare gift of Lawrence's. It became crucial as the ad-
ministration attempted to carry out the urban redevelopment that
became the hallmark of his four terms in office. The public support
for the large number of programs spanning nearly two decades was
due in large part to Lawrence's ability to remain ”close to the people.”
James Michener commented on Lawrence's gift in 1961: ”I suppose the
newspapers were right in labeling him ’a typical ward-heeling politi-
cian,’ but whenever I heard the phrase in connection with Dave Law-
rence, I thought, ’I wish my ward were in such hands.’ For the thing
that impressed me most about . . . Lawrence was that he talked sense.
In his speeches that I heard, he hammered away at specific legisla-
tion, at specific problems. He seemed to have a delicate radar set
tuned in to the minds of the people to whom he was talking, and with
each group he discussed the things that they were interested in/'16

Michener's testimony notwithstanding, Lawrence was not with-
out faults or weaknesses. He was subject to moods of depression or
anger, to moments of pettiness, and he could often be accused of in-
sensitivity to the feelings of others. Among fellow workers, for ex-
ample, Lawrence's temper was well known. He was often short with
his office staff, particularly when he was upset by an error or an un-
expected interruption in his routine. He was particularly short tem-
pered when he was not feeling well. These periods were rare, but dur-
ing them Lawrence's cordiality would vanish and ”he would really
be a bear.” Only his closest associates would know why. ”Others
would say, ‘Gee, he is in a hell of a bad mood today. . . .’ They didn't
know . . . the reason . . . and we certainly weren't about to tell them.”
But Lawrence gave vent to his anger most frequently when local
ward workers did what he perceived to be careless work or failed to
carry out an assigned duty. ”He let them know he was angry in no
uncertain terms. When he began to shout and rap that ring on the
desk they got out of there in a hurry.” He also became terribly irri-
tated at reporters, particularly when they referred to him as ”boss,”
and at political associates whose ambition, in his opinion, threatened
the unity of the party.”

Lawrence's temper outbursts, fortunately for his staff and others,
were relatively few. Nevertheless, he was not an easy man to work
for. He expected his employees to show the same total devotion to
the job that he demanded of himself. He was seldom considerate of

175

176 <1 Don’t call me boss

their need for time outside of work. ”He would call you up at night,
call you up in the morning. He would expect you to respond,” said
Iack Robin, who nevertheless called Lawrence a ”nice Lyndon Iohn-
son.” ”He put up with things later on that he wouldn't have tolerated
earlier. He just generally mellowed and became a nicer fellow/'13
Furthermore, he almost never complimented workers on their
good efiorts. High-quality work was expected and praise was seldom
given. Walter Giesey, his highly talented aide, gave absolute loyalty
to Lawrence for sixteen years, accompanying him to Harrisburg and
Washington, D.C., to remain in his service. ”Few people understood
the wide range of responsibilities that Walter Giesey exercised,” ex-
plained Aldo Colautti, his successor in the mayor's office. ”He was
in effect the budget manager, he was in charge of all the legislative
relations with city council, he had all of the city department heads
reporting to him, he functioned as, in effect, what other cities would
call the city manager.” Lawrence was clearly dependent upon him,
yet several associates, including Colautti, said that they never heard
Lawrence praise Giesey for his important contributions.”
Lawrence not only was sparing with his praise but was often gruff
or seemingly rude, particularly with those in constant close contact
with him. He always answered the phone in a demanding, ”What do
you want?” tone of voice. He was seldom cordial on the phone and
was often unnecessarily sharp with political associates and party
workers. Volunteer Rosemary Plessett related, ”One time when he
was in Harrisburg he asked me to keep him ’up to date on what those
ward chairmen are doing.’ So I called him . . . and he said, ’Goddam
it! I have a whole state to run. I can't worry about two ward chair-
men.’ Bang! And he hung up. So I had to be very careful about what
information I relayed to him.” Most of his executive staff and close
associates excused his brusqueness as a result of his desire to keep
on schedule and his impatience with minor details. Walter Giesey,
however, attributed a deeper significance to it. ”After being with him
for a long time, I came to understand that most of it was a facade.
He recognized that that was the kind of image that he had to create
to help convey the belief that he was in charge. He would say many
times that ’there are only three ways a political leader can run things
and that's either out of love, respect or fear. If you don't have one or
two, then you simply can't function.’ I don't think he ever sought
love ; he sought respect and in certain instances fear.”2° Giesey’s analy-
sis certainly seems on the mark. There was little around him that
escaped his attention, and it seems likely that he was indeed aware
of his image among his staff and associates. On the other hand, Law-

Policies, Principles, and Procedures [>

rence often went out of his way to avoid offending political and gov-
ernmental colleagues, including those whom he could easily have de-
stroyed. Moreover, it was a poorly kept secret around city hall that
he could never fire anyone and seldom demoted city workers. On those
few occasions when dismissal became necessary, Giesey or a depart-
ment head was left to carry out the action. In one instance when he
did order the dismissal of a worker, he ordered him rehired, in another
position, when he learned that he needed only a few more years of
work to become eligible for retirement. Thus it appears that his sharp
tongue was the result of a carefully orchestrated effort to project a
tough-guy, always-in-charge image.

Perhaps more upsetting to those around him was his intolerance
of what he considered weaknesses in others. Understandably, he de-
tested Margiotti, who had attempted to put him in prison. However,
he was more disdainful of what he saw as the man's dishonesty and
uncontrolled ambition. It was a basic character flaw worthy of any
ethical person's deepest scorn. Ioseph Guffey, Ioe McArdle, and David
Roberts possessed the same weakness and earned Lawrence's long-
time enmity. He worked with all three out of necessity but always
avoided any urmecessary contact. Once, while sitting in a car with
Art Rooney, owner of the Pittsburgh Steelers, he noticed Roberts ap-
proaching along the sidewalk. ”I don't want to see this guy,” he said,
and crouched down on the seat until the prothonotary passed by.“

Another longtime opponent, Ray Sprigle, an investigative jour-
nalist for the Post Gazette, earned his place on Lawrence's enemy
list through his crusade against corruption on the city police force.
Sprigle, in Lawrence's opinion, was basically dishonest in his report-
ing—another ”sin” that Lawrence could not tolerate—and spoke to
the reporter only when absolutely necessary. Sprigle’s articles inflicted
serious damage on the Lawrence administration, but he never earned
the lifelong bitterness that Lawrence directed toward Margiotti. He
was doing the job for which his employer hired him, and Lawrence
could understand his ”indiscretions.” When the mayor learned that
Sprigle had entered a hospital of questionable reputation for a detached
retina operation, he called the owner of the Post-Gazette, William
Block. His own numerous eye operations had made him something
of an expert on eye surgery facilities in the city. ”You should get him
out of there,” he urged. Block complied and later reported that
Lawrence's advice had prevented a possible serious medical compli-
cation for Sprigle. Sprigle apparently never learned of Lawrence's ac-
tion, and the two retained their adversarial posture.”

Other behavior traits of which Lawrence disapproved, such as

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178 <1 Don't call me boss

drinking, merely aroused the disagreeable side of his personality. ”It
was a weakness he couldn't understand. He had no tolerance for it,”
said his son Ierry. Everywhere he turned during his political life it
seemed he encountered people who drank more than he thought ac-
ceptable. He became most irritated by those close to him. He fre-
quently ridiculed Governor Earle’s drinking habits in private, and some
felt the sting of his scorn in the company of others, as in the case
of one of his aides — it made little difference that the aide always per-
formed to expectations and often contributed well beyond the nor-
mal call of duty.”

Finally, Lawrence remained somewhat stiff, almost puritanical
all his life. On the job he had no time even for occasional levity, and
in public he maintained what he considered proper decorum. He en-
joyed his pinochle game or an hour at the YMCA, but at both he was
businesslike and highly competitive. Even at home he was rather for-
mal and followed a somewhat rigid routine. He greatly enjoyed sport-
ing events, but the enjoyment derived from the competitiveness of
the event rather than a lightheartedness on his part. Although Law-
rence carried several pages of jokes with him at all times, few asso-
ciates could recall humorous anecdotes or incidents involving him.
john Iones perhaps best captured the serious nature of Lawrence. ”He
would laugh at others but not at himself. He could tell a joke but
the joke was never directed at Lawrence. Most of them were what
you might call grocery store humor. But I don't think he had a real
sense of humor/'24

It was perhaps Lawrence's inability to View life in a softer light
that prevented him from showing compassion to his wife following
the deaths of their sons. He had overcome, or at least controlled, his
grief, and he expected the same of Alyce. When she could not and
turned to alcohol for solace he treated her as he treated others; in his
mind she could refrain from drinking if she so willed it. He retreated
further into his work, leaving her alone in a house full of children
and relatives to regain control of her life. His absence merely exacer-
bated her difficulty. That neither could help the other reveals perhaps
as much about the state of society in the mid 1940s as it does about
either one. One was expected to work out one’s problems. The di-
vergent paths taken by David and Alyce Lawrence—one functional,
the other destructive—created an unbridgeable gulf between them.

1942-1945
The Interlude

In mid I942 David Lawrence was struggling to rise from his political
and personal disasters. Fortunately for him the method of his ascent
existed within his own, now unstable, political career. His running
battle with U.S. Senator Joseph Guffey, a new role in national poli-
tics, and his efforts to regain control of the state and of western Penn-
sylvania politics all contributed to his reemergence.

Gufiey had momentarily held the upper hand in 1940 when, on
the strength of his renomination, he insisted that Lawrence make good
on his pledge to resign as Democratic state chairman. By installing
his own man, Meridith Meyers, Guffey, at least on the surface, gained
new strength in the state organization. He now appeared to be the
number one Democrat in the state. It was only Lawrence's standing
among the party regulars that prevented Guffey from attempting his
total expulsion from the leadership. Rather than risk a dangerous
battle that he might conceivably lose, Gufiey agreed to back Law-
rence for the position of Democratic national committeeman from
Pennsylvania. Thus what initially appeared to be a certain Gufiey
victory, with no quarter given, turned instead into a standoff, with
the senator holding a slight edge. Lawrence retained both his pres-
tige and some of his influence. In addition, he gained a degree of na-
tional prominence.

During the next two years the two men jockeyed for position,
neither able to assert full command. Lawrence, the loyal party regular,
had supported, although somewhat less than enthusiastically, Gufley’s
I940 reelection campaign. His efiorts, by several accounts, won the
continued admiration and respect of the organization regulars. 1 Gufiey
countered by easily winning reelection in November. Lawrence, rec-
ognized as the master campaigner, matched him by turning out ex-

179

Biographical Sketches [> xix

THOMAS KENNEDY. Lieutenant-govemor during the Earle administra-
tion. Secretary-treasurer of the United Mine Workers and Iohn L.
Lewis's spokesman in Pennsylvania politics. Rejected by Lawrence
as the candidate for governor in 1938.

IIMMY KIRK. Lawrence friend and business associate, 1925-46. City
treasurer in the McNair administration; first city treasurer under
Lawrence.

CHARLES KLINE. Republican mayor of Pittsburgh, 1924-33, convicted
of malfeasance in office and forced to resign.

IAMES KNOX. Longtime loyal Lawrence associate. Held numerous pub-
lic and party ofl-‘Ices during Lawrence's career.

GEORGE LEADER. York County chainnan, 1948, state senator, I950; gover-
nor of Pennsylvania, 1955-59.

EDDIE LEONARD. President of plasterefs local 31 ; secretary of the Build-
ing Trades Council. Member of the Pittsburgh City Council,
1943-59. Opposed Lawrence in the 1949 Democratic mayoralty
primary. Named president of the International Plasterers’ Union
in 19 51.

IOSEPH P. MCARDLE. Son of P. I. McArdle. Democratic city council-
man. Staunch opponent of Lawrence and eventually purged from
the party organization.

P. I. MCARDLE. Republican city councilman, 1932-34. Became Demo-
cratic candidate for council, 1934, after unsuccessful bid to win
Republican nomination for mayor. Welcomed into the party by
Lawrence.

MATTHEW MCCLosKEY. Millionaire Philadelphia contractor. Became
active in Democratic affairs in 1934. A confidant and supporter
of Lawrence's throughout his public career.

WILLIAM MCCLELLAND. Democratic coroner of Allegheny County.
Former Pennsylvania boxing commissioner. Long time ally of
Prothonotary David Roberts in the anti-Lawrence wing of the
party.

CHARLES “BUCK” MCGOVERN. Allegheny County sheriff; Republican
voter registration commissioner, 1921-25; county commissioner,
1931. One of the first to defect from the Republican party. Mc-
Govern and Caldwalder Barr joined to oppose the regular Repub-
lican organization in 1931. Both won.

WILLIAM MCNAIR. Perennial Democratic office seeker; elected mayor
of Pittsburgh in 1933. Involved in a constant battle with Lawrence
for the next two years. Resigned in 1936.

LAWRENCE MALoNEY. A police lieutenant appointed by Lawrence to
lead raids against Pittsburgh's gambling establishments. Head of

180 <1 Don't call me boss

pected majorities for Roosevelt both in western Pennsylvania and
across the state.-°- During the next several years Gufiey and Lawrence
continued to attack and counterattack each other. To make matters
worse for the party, they carried out their war in the media, in full
view of the public. Their invective continued without letup for the
whole year and promised a battle royal for control of the party in I942,
when two key decisions would be made——selection of a nominee for
governor and election of a state chairman.

As was to be expected, the two men differed on both issues. In
February 1942, Lawrence, Matthew McCloskey, and lack Kelly, fol-
lowing a closed-door meeting in Philadelphia, announced that they
would support F. Clair Ross —the auditor general and the only Demo-
crat to win statewide office in 1938 —for the state committee endorse-
ment for the gubernatorial nomination. A number of Democratic
leaders around the state grumbled about the high-handed tactics, and
most recognized that they were presented with a fait accompli. Guf-
fey, seeking allies, turned to Allegheny County Commissioner Iohn
Kane, who had expressed the most irritation at being left out of the
Philadelphia meeting. The two agreed to support an alternative can-
didate, Iudge Ralph Smith, threatening not only to cause another
costly statewide primary battle—in terms of both money and party
unity—but also to split the Allegheny County party wide open.
County Democrats and labor supporters began to line up behind the
rising star, Kane, while the city workers and staunch organization
members remained loyal to Lawrence. The scenario appeared to be
working just the way Guffey hoped. A Smith victory would seriously
damage Lawrence's prestige and place Kane in position to claim leader-
ship of western Pennsylvania and perhaps the state chairmanship
in June.

For a brief moment during the tragic week of 20 April 1942, it had
appeared that Gufley and Lawrence migh reconcile their differences.
Guffey visited the Lawrence household several times and attended
funeral services. Lawrence met briefly with him on one of these oc-
casions, and the press reported that the two men appeared cordial
toward each other. But appearances were deceptive, and the battle
continued through the primary and general elections.

Lawrence's first significant triumph occurred in the 1942 primary.
In a light turnout, which many attributed to the voters’ preoccupa-
tion with World War II, Lawrence's candidate, Ross, easily defeated
I-udge Smith by more than 6oo,ooo votes. Smith lost fifty-seven of
Pennsylvania's sixty-seven counties in spite of his endorsement by
both the AFL and the CIO leadership and support from important

The Interlude [>

Democrats from Pittsburgh and Philadelphia. Moreover, he won only
one county normally controlled by the Democratic organization.
Luther Harr ran a distant third. Senator Guffey brazenly attributed
his candidate's defeat to the newly enacted Hatch Act, which prohib-
ited political activity on the part of federal employees. The act, Guf-
fey noted, removed thousands of loyal Guffey supporters, mostly WPA
employees, from the political arena. What Guffey failed to note was
that by 1942, because of decreased federal funding for Depression re-
lief, the number of federal employees in Pennsylvania had declined
drastically.3

The exceptionally small voter turnout and the effectiveness of
the Lawrence supporters, more likely, produced the easy Ross vic-
tory. In organization counties the turnout exceeded that in non-
organization counties. Only in Allegheny County, influenced by the
temporary split between the Kane and Lawrence forces and the local
residency of Iudge Smith, did the organization fail to produce a Ross
victory. The election results made it clear that, while Guffey and
Meridith Meyers controlled the party offices, Lawrence retained the
loyalty of key leaders and, more important, the rank and file work-
ers. The post of state chairman would be Lawrence's for the asking,
should he choose to run.

When the time arrived, Lawrence made it clear that he expected
to be reinstalled. His unanimous election provided him with the out-
let he required to enable him to cope with the loss of his sons. It also
eliminated Gui-fey, once and for all, as an important force in the party.
Guffey made one final attempt to place himself in a bargaining posi-
tion with Lawrence by threatening to back Judge Smith as an inde-
pendent candidate for governor, but Smith upset those plans by an-
nouncing in early Iune that he would support the party's nominee.
Lawrence by the summer of 1942 had no peer within the Democratic
party of Pennsylvania.

Once again, however, Lawrence had opted for an unattractive
candidate who generated no enthusiasm among the voters in the mid-
war general election. Ross campaigned on his record as auditor gen-
eral and the inadequacies of the Iames administration, and this cre-
ated no groundswell of support. Pennsylvanians found it diflicult to
become excited over the activities of the state's number one book-
keeper, no matter how competent. His opponent, the former Repub-
lican state chairman Edward Martin, ignoring the not guilty verdicts
of the two Lawrence trials, reminded his audiences of the corruption
of the last Democratic administration. He also repeatedly, and cor-
rectly, charged that Ross was the handpicked candidate of ”Boss Law-

181

182 <1 Don't call me boss

rence.” But Martin's small audiences reacted with the same lack of
enthusiasm shown Ross.

The lowest election response in thirty years gave Martin 55 per-
cent of the votes. Pennsylvanians joined in the Republican resurgence
occurring across the nation by electing the entire Republican state
ticket. This gave the GOP control of the State House and Senate. In
Lawrence's home district of western Pennsylvania, Ross defeated Mar-
tin in both Pittsburgh and Allegheny County, but by the smallest
margins in a decade. The Republican candidate captured seventeen
of twenty-four western counties. Republican control in the state had
been reestablished for the first time since 1934, and the Democrats
were in danger of reverting to their earlier political impotencef‘

Yet, out of defeat, Lawrence emerged as the sole Democratic
power in Pennsylvania. Most Democrats viewed the nationwide Re-
publican victory and the meddling of Guffey as the causes of the
Democratic defeat. Lawrence suffered no recriminations, even from
those formerly in opposition to him. Kane, Meyers, Leo Mundy, Lu-
zeme County chairman, and Iames Clark, Philadelphia County chair-
man, all commented on the national Republican tide and praised
Lawrence in their postelection comments. A thoroughly discredited
Gufiey was no longer a threat to Lawrence or the party. Following
an unsuccessful reelection bid in 1946, he retired from politics at age
seventy-five.

One unexpected result of the battle his selection as national com-
mitteeman, was a recurring source of pleasure for the rest of Law-
rence’s life. One of his greatest joys as a young politician had been
to attend the Democratic National Convention, first as a page and
later as a delegate from Pennsylvania. The bartering for votes, the
negotiations over candidates and platform, the pageantry, and the
frenzied pace thrilled him. Of all his political activities he seemed
happiest and most excited when attending a national convention.5
No evidence exists to suggest that he desired the post of national
committeeman, although given his drive for leadership, the thought
must have occasionally crossed his mind. He showed no reluctance
in suggesting the position in 1940 as consolation for relinquishing the
state chairmanship.

As he had done when he assumed the city, county, and state
party chainnanships, Lawrence seized the post, which had been largely
honorary in the history of the Pennsylvania Democratic party, and
turned it into one of major significance. His role at the 1940 Demo-
cratic National Convention in Chicago had been marginal, but it
would never be so again.

The Interlude l>

With Roosevelt's nomination for his third term a foregone con-
clusion, political intrigue and maneuvering at the 1940 convention
had rested on the selection of a running mate; ”Cactus lack” Garner
had lost FDR's support. Lawrence, who originally favored an old friend,
Indiana Governor Paul McNutt, for the second spot on the ballot,
visited the Roosevelt headquarters to obtain inside information on
the president's choice. He met with Harry Hopkins, who suggested
that Lawrence call Roosevelt at the White House. ”When I talked with
President Roosevelt,” said Lawrence, ”he stressed very strongly that
we were weak in the farm states and that Wallace being on the ticket
would be a great help to us.” Armed with this information— FDR later
issued his ”nominate this man or I won't run” edict— Lawrence made
his initial speech to the Pennsylvania delegation. ”I don't want to see
Pennsylvania become a tail on this kite. The word is pretty well
around Chicago that Henry Wallace is the leading candidate. We
should go to the convention with at least a majority for the candi-
date who is likely to win. We can play smart politics and lead the
vanguard for the Secretary of Agriculture.” Pennsylvania gave sixty-
eight of its seventy-three votes to Wallace. Ironically, the secretary
of agriculture failed to deliver the expected farm vote and predicted
as much to Lawrence in the fall of the year. Lawrence agreed to cam-
paign with the vice-presidential candidate ”to break down any feel-
ing among the Democrats in Pennsylvania that I was unfriendly to
Wallace.” They had just completed a swing across the western sec-
tion of the state when Lawrence remarked, ”Well, Henry, I guess we'll
do all right in Iowa.” ”Oh, no,” Wallace responded, ”we’ll lose Iowa.
In fact, we'll lose nearly all those states. Nebraska, the Dakotas and
so on. . . . They're just not going to vote for the ticket this year.” Law-
rence later reported that he filed the incident away to use it against
Wallace in 1944, but it proved to be unnecessary. The role of the
freshman national committeeman from Pennsylvania was not cru-
cial. But he had given a hint of the care with which he intended to
operate and clearly signaled that he would not be content to play a
passive role in presidential politics. Four years later he got his oppor-
tunity to act.6

The Pennsylvania delegation to the national convention, under
the leadership of Lawrence and national committeewoman Emma
Guffey Miller (”The Old Grey Mare”) decided as early as February 1944
to support Roosevelt for his fourth term. Once again any dispute would
center on the choice for vice president. As he had done four years
earlier, Guffey, along with the CIO president, Philip Murray, and
Meyers, jumped on the Wallace bandwagon before the convention.

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184 <l Don’t call me boss

Lawrence, never comfortable with Wallace, leaned toward Senator
Alben Barkley of Kentucky but was persuaded by Kane to join the
growing list of Truman supporters.

Lawrence and the Missouri senator had met years earlier on an
outing arranged by Gufiey. They met subsequently over the years,
usually for lunch at the Senate dining room and most often with Guf-
fey. Lawrence recalled being neither impressed nor unimpressed with
Truman, but Kane was enthusiastic. Then, ”in April [1944] Senator
Truman came to Pittsburgh to make a speech. . . . The next day I drove
[him] . . . to York, . . . to speak to the Young Democratic Society. . . .
It gave me my best opportunity to have a real visit over four or five
hours of driving across the Pennsylvania Turnpike.” Lawrence was
impressed that Truman was urging Roosevelt to pardon the senator's
old benefactor, Tom Pendergast of Kansas City, then in prison. Law-
rence believed Pendergast had suffered at the hands of disloyal asso-
ciates and admired Truman's loyalty and support.7

Shortly afterward Lawrence became a strong and active Truman
supporter. He went to Washington, D.C., just before the convention
to meet with Mayor Ed Kelly of Chicago, the Democratic national
chairman, Robert Harmegan of Missouri, Iacob Arvey of Chicago, and
several others to plan strategy for the Truman candidacy. Risking a
renewed split with Guffey and, even more important, with organized
labor in western Pennsylvania—where Philip Murray and his politi-
cal action chairman, Sidney Hillrnan, were campaigning for Wallace-
Lawrence returned home to announce his support of the Missouri
senator. ”It was . . . hard to be on the opposite side from Mr. Mur-
ray. . . . And, of course, labor was generally supporting Wallace, and
that put me in an awkward position in Pennsylvania, particularly in
the Pittsburgh area, which is strongly organized in the labor move-
ment.”8 A split in the Pennsylvania delegation appeared certain.

The convention battle over the vice-presidential choice was waged
both within the Pennsylvania delegation and on the floor. A motion
to endorse Wallace, introduced by Murray and supported by Guffey,
his sister Emma, and Meyers one day before the convention caught
Lawrence by surprise. He had called the caucus to discuss voting and
other procedures. He immediately ruled the motion out of order but
agreed to permit it when reminded that the endorsement did not com-
pel all delegates to support Wallace on the first ballot. The result of
the caucus Vote was forty-one to twenty-one to endorse Henry Wal-
lace. The Truman backers had considerable work to accomplish in
a short period of time.

Angered by the opposition to Wallace, Guffey blasted the Tru-

The Interlude [>

man candidacy, charging that it was being ”bossed by the well known
machine leaders Kelly, Hague, and Flynn.” He circumspectly omit-
ted Lawrence. His attack might have carried more weight had he added
that several of the bosses, as well as Lawrence and Harmegan, had
adjoining rooms on the seventh floor of Chicago's Blackstone Hotel.
The publication of GuHey’s candid but ill-tempered remarks, how-
ever, left him with no room to maneuver in the event that the Wal-
lace bandwagon stalled?

Under Lawrence's leadership, Kane, Iames Clark, and a number
of others spent the next several days fruitlessly attempting to sway
members of the delegation toward Truman. At one point when it ap-
peared that they might be creating a shift in sentiment, hundreds of
telegrams, sponsored by the CIO officials, arrived demanding support
for Wallace. Wavering delegates moved back into the vice-president's
camp.1°

Lawrence, unable to control his own delegation, continued to con-
fer with Harmegan, Ed Kelly, Mayor Frank Hague of Iersey City, and
the postmaster general, Frank Walker, to plan strategy. Buoyed by
FDR's initial cool support for Wallace and a later letter indicating that
Truman would be ”acceptable to him,” this self-appointed executive
committee determined that its first task would be to head off a pos-
sible Wallace stampede. If that occurred, they decided in private, the
convention chairman would recognize Lawrence via a prearranged
signal. Lawrence would then call for a twelve-hour recess to stop the
nomination and give the pro-Truman forces an opportunity to re-
group.“ The plan worked precisely as arranged.

The CIO-organized Wallace steamroller began to operate on the
evening of 20 Iuly, according to schedule. Through the use of
counterfeit admission tickets, the union managed to fill the conven-
tion floor to overflowing. ”I was as afraid as I ever was in my life,”
Genevieve Blatt recalled. ”All kinds of Chicago people . . . were pour-
ing in to try to fill the place up. . . . And I got . . . forced toward the
concrete outside wall. I was really afraid I might get crushed into it.
I could see the wall coming closer. And some very big men were re-
ally shoving and shoving. And when we got to the door . . . they forced
us in so hard that I kind of entered the hall in a burst.”13

When the first ballot was taken, Wallace emerged clearly in the
lead but lacking a few votes necessary for nomination. The demon-
stration plarmed by the CIO and a few other organizations began
slowly because several groups missed their cue. They quickly recov-
ered, however, and ”pandemonium broke loose. Wallace was very close
to the nomination, and we felt that if it had gone into another ballot,

185

186 <1 Don't call me boss

some of the weaker-kneed delegates might run away from Truman
to Wallace.” The chairman, supposedly spotting Lawrence in the midst
of the swelling chaos, gave him the floor. According to Genevieve
Blatt, he probably did not even see Lawrence. ”He just said, ’I recog-
nize the gentleman from Pennsylvania.’ And the gentleman from
Pennsylvania had the mike and they turned it on loud for him and
he made the motion. . . . [chairman Iackson] stated the motion, put
the vote, and it was all over in thirty seconds. All of a sudden there
was no more session. The chairman was away from the podium and
the people were leaving the stage.” The stunned Wallace supporters,
in spite of their reinforcements, had been outmaneuvered by a hand-
ful of men.”

Hannegan, Hague, Ed Kelly, Walker, and Lawrence then met under
the stage to assess their situation. ”We counted noses. . . . We made
plans to check on all the delegations and to have the lines hold. We
also contacted all possible wavering Wallace supporters and uncom-
mitted delegates.”14

By the next day the Wallace balloon had been punctured. Ballot
switches in several key delegations gave Truman the nomination on
the second ballot. On a somewhat pathetic note, Guffey, in what
proved to be his swansong in national politics, grabbed the micro-
phone from the Pennsylvania floor chairman, Judge Iohn Wilson, and
tried to move that the nomination be made unanimous. He was ruled
out of order, but eight state votes later he again called for a unani-
mous vote and the motion carried. By this time Truman had 261 votes
more than necessary for nomination.

Lawrence, although able to deliver only twenty-four of his state's
seventy-two votes for Truman, emerged from the convention as the
undisputed leading power in Pennsylvania and an important force in
national politics. In an era when city bosses exercised a strong
influence in Washington, Lawrence gave notice that he could play
in the same league as the most powerful. In succeeding years, as the
old guard of Ed Kelly and Hague gave way to younger urban leaders,
Lawrence would emerge as the head of the informal delegation of city
leaders. It was a role he was to relish during his next two decades
in politics. He approached convention politics, as he did all party
meetings, as serious business. He discouraged ”spontaneous celebra-
tions” on the part of the Pennsylvania delegation and frequently lec-
tured them on proper decorum. He enjoyed the opportunity to meet
with old political friends, many representing urban political organiza-
tions, and thrilled at the give-and-take of national politics. It was a
high-stakes game that reflected his competitive spirit and challenged

The Interlude [>

his ability to win without destroying the party. In the year 1944, when
he was still recovering from the death of his sons, it also provided
a welcome balm for the pain he carried inside.

Lawrence maintained his frantic pace through the fall election,
campaigning in every one of the state's sixty-seven counties. He ac-
companied both Roosevelt and Truman on their brief visits to Penn-
sylvania and was particularly active on behalf of the U.S. Senate can-
didate, Francis I. Myers. He also campaigned for two of his former
choices for governor, Charles Alvin Iones and F. Clair Ross, candi-
dates for judge of, respectively, the State Supreme Court and the State
Superior Court. The three Pennsylvania candidates were particularly
important to Lawrence because all were nominated over the mild ob-
jection of Guffey. A sweep would not only revitalize the Democratic
party in the state but would probably put a permanent end to the
Guffey opposition.

V

The November election returns did just that, giving Lawrence
his greatest statewide victory since 1934. The Roosevelt-Truman mar-
gin of victory in Pennsylvania reflected the narrowness of their tri-
umph throughout the nation, but Lawrence's strongholds of Pitts-
burgh, Allegheny County, and now Philadelphia returned substantial,
although not overwhelming majorities. 15 Equally gratifying were the
victories of Lawrence's personal candidates for statewide office and
the fact that the Democrats regained control of the State House of
Representatives. The debacle of 1938 had been partly reversed, and
Lawrence's position as the top Democrat in Pennsylvania was secure.
He would not have to contend with Ioe Guffey again.

In spite of Democratic triumphs at national and state levels, Law-
rence remained most comfortable and perhaps most effective in west-
ern Pennsylvania. The roots from which he sprang had remained
strong during his entire Harrisburg experience. Unlike a legislator,
who is required to maintain touch with ”the folks back home,” Law-
rence as state chairman and secretary of the Commonwealth could
have abandoned his Pittsburgh ties. His success depended only partly
on a Pittsburgh area constituency. However, he did not divorce him-
self from the Steel City. Making the often uncomfortable, time-
consuming train trip from Pittsburgh to Harrisburg and back again,
he spent almost as much time in Pittsburgh as in the capital. His fam-
ily continued to live in the city of his birth and he never entertained
the idea that he would not one day return. The tumultuous welcome
in April 1940, was, in a way, an inner victory. He could now devote

187

188 < Don’t call me boss

greater attention to the party he had nurtured so carefully during his
youth and early adulthood.

It was no longer the organization Lawrence had turned over to
William McNair and James Kirk, his successor as Democratic county
chairman, when he left for Harrisburg in 1934. Inevitable cracks had
begun to form in the coalition that had been created during the early
years of the Roosevelt administration. Former Republicans such as
P. I. McArdle and rising young Democrats such as Iohn Kane and
David Roberts, a prothonotary, had begun to fonn an opposition. Cer-
tain voting blocks, including Italian-Americans, blacks, and, most
important, organized labor were pulled in several directions as con-
tending leaders arose within the particular groups. In addition, the
Republicans themselves, now leaner and no longer suffering from the
complacency resulting from huge registration majorities, had begun
to offer stiffer opposition. Lawrence's task was by no means as for-
midable as the one he had faced a decade earlier, but it still presented
a healthy challenge.

Perhaps the greatest problem facing Lawrence in his attempt to
strengthen the party was his choice for mayor, Cornelius Scully.
Following the McN air resignation in 1936, the mayor's office had been
turned over to the steady but unspectacular city council president.
Scully was ”a gentleman of the old school. Cultured and educated,
he was from a long-line family from the uppercrust of Pittsburgh so-
ciety. . . . He was an Episcopalian, a member of the Duquesne Club,
and from Lawrence's point of view he represented a section of Pitts-
burgh society which was not well represented in the Democratic
party. . . . He was wholly inexperienced in politics and was staunchly
loyal to Lawrence/'16 Scully, a solid if somewhat bland personality,
became the perfect choice to instill confidence in the Democratic
party's ability to govern after the chaotic McNair administration. For
the same reasons, he proved unable to generate any excitement on
the part of the party regulars or the city's electorate. With organiza-
tion backing in 1937 he had narrowly survived a bid by P. I. McArdle,
a former Republican who became a Democratic city councilman in
1933, to deny him the party's nomination and narrowly won a term
of his own.

Lawrence returned Scully’s loyalty with support for his programs
and unwavering political backing. Now, in 1941, amid strong oppo-
sition from a group headed by Kane and the county register of wills,
Iohn M. Huston, who argued that Scully could not win in the fall,
Lawrence again remained faithful. Scully had done a competent job
in difficult times and continued to demonstrate his loyalty to Law-

The Interlude [>

rence. The party had an obligation to him and would not abandon
him merely to strengthen the ticket. Scully won the primary with
relative ease, although the small percentage of eligible Democrats
who turned out to vote signaled a potential problem for the general
election. Against Scully the Republican organization ran a lawyer
who carried a Well-known Pittsburgh name. Harmar Denny was a de-
scendant of Pittsburgh's first mayor, Ebenezer Denny, and a member
of a well-known upper-class family. He frequently contributed to Re-
publican causes but managed to remain apart from the infighting of
Pittsburgh politics. Thus he carried no taint of earlier Republican
scandals.

Denny capitalized on his ”clean” independent image by making
”boss Lawrence, who has returned to Pittsburgh to reclaim the city,”
the main issue of the campaign. He virtually ignored Scully, consis-
tently referring to the previous five years as the ”Lawrence admin-
istration.” In a typical address at the North Side Carnegie Hall he
leveled a brutal attack on Lawrence. ”]ersey City has its Boss Hague,”
he declared.

Kansas City had its Boss Tom Pendergast—until the law caught
up with him, and Pittsburgh has its Boss—Dictator David L.
Lawrence. And let me tell you, Davey Lawrence makes Hague
and Pendergast, in many ways look like a couple of pikers. . . .
There's David L. Lawrence still smelling of the gravel scandal,
the insurance scandal, the padded-payroll scandal in the high-
way department, the iniquitous gag laws with which he at-
tempted to Hitlerize the citizens. With two of his pals con-
victed by the courts, this Pennsylvania Huey Long boasts that
he and his gang are going back to Harrisburg. What's the idea-
did they overlook something the last time they were there? . . .
Take back your city from the boss ridden crew who have made
it a political playground for Davey Lawrence.”

As Denny kept up his attack during September and October, the ac-
complishments of the Scully administration, the local efforts of Roo-
sevelt and the New Deal, and even a whisper campaign regarding a
Democratic plan to raise taxes after the election all faded into obscu-
rity. The efforts of Lawrence to reassert his control over Pittsburgh
became the sole issue. Lawrence, realizing that he was to be the focus
of Denny's entire campaign, tried to remain in the background. That
decision, however, gave to Scully the role that he was completely un-
suited to play, that of major defender of the party. Denny attacked

189

xx <1 Biographical Sketches

”Maloney’s marauders.” Indicted for extorting bribes from the
gambling bosses, but never convicted.

CHARLES I. MARGIOTTI. Considered by many to be Pennsylvania's great-
est trial lawyer. Named attorney general by Governor Earle in 1934.
His uncontrolled ambition led to bitter battles with politicians
on both sides of the political aisle. Fired as attorney general dur-
ing the last months of the Earle administration. Lawrence became
his greatest enemy.

PARK MARTIN. Civil engineer, director of the Allegheny County Plan-
ning Commission; executive director of the Allegheny Conference
on Community Development, 1945-58.

WILLIAM L. MELLoN. Nephew of Andrew Mellon, cousin to Richard
King Mellon. Co-founder of Gulf Oil. Republican financial sup-
porter, generally conceded to be Allegheny County Republican
boss, 1915-35.

EMMA GUEEEY MILLER. Sister of Senator Ioseph Gufley. Long-time
Democratic National Committeewoman from Pennsylvania.
Considered the ranking female Democrat in Pennsylvania for
nearly thirty years. Affectionately known as ”The Old Gray
Mare.”

MICHAEL MUSMANNO. Egocentric attorney and later judge. A defense
attorney in the Sacco-Vanzetti trial; a judge at Nuremberg. Well-
known Communist foe during the early 1950s. Musmarmo sought
numerous political ofi-ices during his long career.

DANIEL PARISH. Co-owner of the Allegheny Asphalt Company. Long-
time friend of Lawrence's. Frequently alleged to pay kickbacks to
Lawrence in return for city paving contracts.

WILLIAM RAHAUSER. Democratic district attorney of Allegheny County,
1947-51. Battled Charles I. Margiotti in the Marjorie Matson Com-
munist influence case.

DAVID RANDALL. Executive secretary to Governor George Leader,
I955“59-

CHARLES OWEN RICE. Pittsburgh parish priest. Known as the Labor
Priest for his support of the causes of organized labor. Often an
advocate of liberal social and welfare programs.

WALLACE RICHARDS. Director of the Pittsburgh Regional Planning As-
sociation, I937. Often considered the visionary of the Pittsburgh
Renaissance.

DAVID B. RDBERTS. Democratic prothonotary of Pittsburgh. Frequently
at odds with the Lawrence administration. Lawrence considered
Roberts and his ally William McClelland to be political oppor-
tunists who were only interested in their own welfare.

190 <1 Don't call me boss

Lawrence and the party again and again while Scully recited the ac-
complishments of his administration and talked of humanizing City
Hall.

The results of the election nearly justified the fears of the anti-
Scully faction in the party and sounded a clear warning to Lawrence.
Mayor Scully won reelection, but by only 3163 out of a total of more
than 22o,ooo votes, in spite of a Democratic registration advantage
of more than 81,000. More alarmingly, he lost seventeen of the city's
thirty-two wards, including ten that he had carried in the previous
election. Scully emerged victorious in all the wards the party nor-
mally carried—those composed of heavily blue-collar, ethnic, and
black neighborhoods located near the city center, and in the indus-
trial riverbank communities. However, he was unable to carry a single
one of the newer and rapidly growing suburbs in the East End, the
South Hills, and the West End. 13 Thus, it became clear that the Scully,
whose upper-class background should have attracted these ”suburban”
voters, added little to the party's ticket. The results of the city coun-
cil races, moreover, confirmed that Scully had become a costly handi-
cap: all six victorious Democratic candidates outpolled the head of
the ticket and performed well in the middle-class neighborhoods that
supported the Republican mayoralty candidate.

The results of the 1941 municipal elections had showed that the
Democratic organization required patchwork and repair in certain
places, but not a major overhaul. Immediately following the election,
Lawrence met with district committeemen and ward chairmen. He
said little to those whose neighborhoods had performed well in the
recent election; others were warned to ”get their houses in order and
increase their efficiency or suffer the consequences. A few who were
unwilling or unable to get in line were purged over the next few
years/'19 Special efforts were to be made to strengthen the party
among the various minority groups and among the city's white-collar
middle class.

Fortunately, a decision on the major weakness of the party-
Mayor Scully— could be avoided for four years. It is not certain when
Lawrence joined the growing opposition to another term for him, but
by 194 5 he no longer had to be convinced. Scully, who willingly car-
ried out the party philosophy and proved to be a competent mayor,
was urged to retire. He could not win reelection, and nine years was
as much support as one could expect. The surprise occurred when
it came time to select his replacement.

Lawrence filled the difficult period of the early I94OS with power
brokering, campaigning for his candidates, and shoring up the local

The Interlude l>

party in areas where it had grown weak. He appeared content, enter-
taining no thoughts of running for office himself. In Lawrence's pre-
I94 5 view, ”you had to make a choice in politics. You either became
a candidate-type or a manager-type, and he saw himself as the manager-
type, where the job was picking the candidates.”-2° It was a role he
apparently expected to continue playing for the remainder of his po-
litical life.

But ”picking the candidate” was for him a consensus activity.
With the exception of 1938, when he supported Charles Alvin Iones
for governor, he seldom forced his choice upon the party. A good can-
didate was one who captured the enthusiasm of the majority of the
party leaders. A candidate stood no chance of winning if he failed to
gain widespread support or if his candidacy split the party. Consen-
sus within the party, he said over and over, was crucial to victory.

V

The clearest consensus in 194 5 was that Scully should be replaced
as mayor. Only Scully disagreed, but he was too loyal to Lawrence
and too much of a gentleman to make a strong protest. He made no
public announcement regarding his candidacy, and it was assumed
by all that he was no longer under consideration.

The void was quickly filled by a number of hopefuls who smelled
a sure victory if anointed by the party leaders. Huston, who had chal-
lenged Scully in 1941, was the first to announce his candidacy. He
was quickly followed by Roberts, Edward Frey, the city controller,
and Patrick Fagan, former district president of the United Mine Work-
ers. Each brought his own constituency to the potential battle, but
none could claim the support of a majority of the party regulars or,
more important, of its hierarchy.

Lawrence, Kirk, the county coroner, William McClelland, State
Senator Joe Barr, and the other members of the Democratic execu-
tive committee at first attempted to persuade Kane to accept the par-
ty’s endorsement. He was well known in the city, and, as a former
labor leader, he could gain the support of the political action com-
mittees. In addition, as the second most powerful politician in west-
em Pennsylvania, he could draw strong support from all factions of
the party, possibly ensuring an uncontested primary. It was this last
factor that caused him to decline the offer. Kane's strength lay in the
county, not in the city of Pittsburgh. As a three-term county com-
missioner, he had carefully built his own organization, which, if he
chose, might rival Lawrence's in terms of power and patronage. In-
deed, the two had been rivals for a number of years. They frequently

191

192 <1 Don't call me boss

disagreed on party matters, and Kane occasionally threatened to chal-
lenge Lawrence's leadership. In reality, however, he lacked the com-
petitive nature of Lawrence and was content to remain the number
two politician in western Pennsylvania. His political and govemmen-
tal status was secure as county commissioner, and he had consider-
able independence. He was naturally reluctant to abandon his con-
stituency to become subservient to Lawrence. When he armounced
that he would not be a candidate, he stated that he had been elected
commissioner by the people and was obligated to fulfill his term.
Searching for a compromise candidate, the party leaders, includ-
ing Kane, then turned to judge Iohn I. Kennedy of the Court of Com-
mon Pleas. A former Pittsburgh city solicitor, he had been elected
to the bench in the same election that gave Scully his first full term
as mayor. Isolated from politics for the past seven years, he appeared
to be the ideal candidate around whom all factions could rally. He
had no known political enemies. Kennedy, flattered by the offer when
first approached, gave indications that he might accept the endorse-
ment. A caucus of the executive committee was scheduled for 25
March to hear all the potential candidates and select Kennedy.
The judge, however, sabotaged the plarmed crowning when he
announced on the morning of the caucus that he would not be a can-
didate. He had been speared by his own sword. He had stated many
times in the past seven years that any judge seeking a nonjudicial
public office was morally obligated to surrender his commission be-
fore beginning a campaign. But financially he could not afford to do
so.“ An embarrassed Democratic executive committee met in cau-
cus as planned that evening but adjourned without endorsing any-
one, although Lawrence offered Kirk's name. The proposal generated
no enthusiasm, and a second meeting was scheduled for 31 March.
Meanwhile it became imperative for the executive committee to
endorse a candidate within the next week. Each of the announced
candidates had been busy trying to line up support among the ward
chairmen and district committee members. Without a clear indica-
tion from the party leaders, a free-for-all primary was likely to break
out that could severely damage the party's chances in November. Law-
rence was well aware that Scully had barely defeated Denny in 1941,
and it appeared that Denny, now a lieutenant colonel in the army,
would carry the Republican banner again. To make matters worse,
Denny armounced that, because of his obligation to his country, he
would not campaign for election and would resign from the army
only if e1ected.22A factionalized Democratic party might be forced
to run its candidate against an absentee candidate, a patriotic image.

The Interlude l>

The party would most certainly be in serious trouble if it could not
agree. The only person left who could unite it was Lawrence himself.

Pittsburgh Democratic folklore has it that the fourteen party
leaders turned to Lawrence as the compromise choice at the caucus
on 31 March after failing to agree on any other candidate. McClelland
suggested that Kane reconsider, and the caucus seemed to be in agree-
ment when Kane took the floor. He again refused to run but named
Lawrence in his place. The committee then appealed to Lawrence over
his objections. As he liked to recall the story, he excused himself from
the meeting to call his wife to ask her opinion. When she agreed, he
returned to accept the draft.” Other party regulars give essentially
the same account. What they fail to mention is the lobbying that oc-
curred in the six days between the two caucuses to persuade Law-
rence to accept. His objections were too fundamental to be swept
away in the enthusiasm of a party draft.

Shortly after the first meeting, Kane invited Lawrence and Kirk
for lunch at the Kane home. When they arrived, Lawrence immedi-
ately began to argue for a Kane candidacy, but Kane and Kirk stopped
him. They had apparently agreed upon the purpose of their luncheon,
and they turned the tables on Lawrence, both maintaining that he
should run ”for the good of the party.” Lawrence countered that he
had three strikes against him: his confrontation with Margiotti, his
religion, and the public’s distrust, as he saw it, of a professional poli-
tician. Kane pressed the argument, and Lawrence, perhaps seeking
a chance to get away as much as anything else, agreed to consider
Kane's argument.“ While he never voiced any concerns about his
personal career, he might also have argued that an unsuccessful bid
would have a negative effect on his influence in state and national
politics. An affirmative decision involved considerable personal risk.

When Lawrence left, he talked to a few other trusted associates,
including Scully’s former secretary, lack Robin, stationed at Camp
Livingston in Louisiana. Robin, while working for Scully, had volun-
teered to write speeches for Lawrence, and the two became close as-
sociates. Robin had written to Lawrence early in 194 5 urging him to
run for the mayoralty, and now Lawrence wanted to discuss the issue
further. Robin urged him to seek the nomination. ”I told him he had
a hell of a lot of people's jobs depending on holding the mayoralty.”25

It is doubtful that Robin's argument, or even the reasoning of Kane,
overcame Lawrence's strong objections. More likely, he realized that
the leadership was at an impasse that only his candidacy could re-
solve. He apparently informed Kane of his decision near the end of
the week, and they arranged to orchestrate the Lawrence draft at the

193

194 <l Don’t call me boss

party caucus on 31 March. Kane agreed to act as campaign manager.
As expected, Frey and Pagan dropped out of the running immediately,
and David Roberts joined them in a few weeks. Scully, who had hoped
to be a compromise candidate himself, quickly armounced his sup-
port of Lawrence. One week later, twenty-six of the thirty-two ward
chairmen endorsed the executive committee's choice. Four others
eventually joined them. Only Huston, a longtime critic of the
organization, and a handful of his followers refused to bow to the in-
evitable. He was, he armounced, ”in the race to stay.”

With nearly the entire city and county organizations lined up
behind Lawrence, the primary election produced only a few sporadic
sparks, but it indicated the direction the fall election would follow.
Huston sprinkled his speeches and published advertisements with
the now hackneyed charges against Lawrence. Calling him ”Dictator
Lawrence,” ”Boss Lawrence,” and ”King David,” Huston laid all the
scandals of the past decade at Lawrence's door. If the public had for-
gotten the Lawrence trials, Huston quickly refreshed their memories.

The Lawrence campaign, masterminded by George Kelly, direc-
tor of parks under Kane, worked to create a new image for the can-
didate. Kelly recognized that the old issues of the New Deal that had
brought the Democratic party to power had lost much of their voter
appeal. Lawrence needed to overcome his image as the dispenser of
the spoils and offer something more. Kelly's experience in highway de-
velopment and waterfront improvement had fostered a common inter-
est with the business community, which had hitherto been lacking
in the Democratic party. Lawrence, he suggested, should use a cam-
paign for public improvements to attract the middle and business
classes. Lawrence, whose analysis of the 1941 mayoralty election had
pinpointed the same weakness, agreed. To create links with the busi-
ness community, he would have to win their confidence. George Kelly
persuaded him to follow two paths during the campaign: avoid mud-
slinging and offer an affirmative program of civic improvements.26
Lawrence accepted the advice, although at times he could not resist
responding vehemently to his opponent's intemperate attacks.

On 20 April Lawrence announced the program that in broad form
became the guidelines for his administrative efforts. Eventually to
become known as the Pittsburgh Renaissance, it proposed the follow-
ing seven points:

I. ublic conferences between the ma or and businessmen at
P Y
which complaints and suggestions would be aired and
answered,-

The Interlude [> 195

2. creation of an ”industrial expansion committee” to work for
diversified industry in Pittsburgh;

3. public improvements advocated by the Allegheny Con-
ference on Community Development;

4. complete rezoning of the city to ”open new home sites
within the city limits”;

5. new residential construction, especially single dwellings
and apartment houses based on federal land purchase and
private capital construction;

6. redistribution of the tax load, relief for real estate, and addi-
tional state aid for the needy;

7. a program to clean, repair, and beautify the central business
district.”

Lawrence offered few details about his plan, although he prom-
ised additional information during the course of the campaign. The
program, however, was a bold approach that sent Lawrence on a mis-
sion never attempted before. Only one of the issues—the provision
of aid for the poor and the homeless—had been part of his agenda in
the past thirty years. His ambitious statement became the guiding
concept of his four-term administration.

Lawrence's seven-point plan promised a dramatic departure from
the issues that had previously concerned him. But his eXtemporane-
ous remarks, offered as always at the end of his address, suggested that
his style of execution would remain the same. He preferred action
to contemplation, and he remained disdainful of comprehensive uto-
pian programs. To carry out his promise, he told the voters of Pitts-
burgh, ”I am offering two things: leadership and a program. And when
I speak of a program, I mean a program in the sense of things sched-
uled to take place. I do not mean any of the airy plans which are
discussed at length and eventually come to nothing. And when I speak
of leadership I refer to that quality or knack which I believe I have
acquired through years in business and public life. Here is the kind
of action Pittsburgh needs and will get from me as your mayor.”23

Huston offered no competing program but derided his opponent's
plan. ”Mr. Lawrence's just too wonderful program for the city is just
so many more promises.” When Lawrence attempted to present a cos-
mopolitan image by discussing the impact of international issues such
as tariff and trade agreements on Pittsburgh industry, Huston urged
the voters to ”dismiss from your minds the irrelevant clap-trap ora-
tory of my opponent who discusses reciprocal trade agreements, in-
ternational postwar economics, shipbuilding, Dumbarton Oaks and

196 <1 Don't call me boss

other world problems.” Lawrence's response, delivered over radio sta-
tion KDKA, enhanced his image as offering more than machine poli-
tics as usual. His opponent was a man ”whose mental capacities are
so limited, so small and taut, that he cannot perceive the relation-
ship of Pittsburgh industries to world trade or do the simple mental
gymnastics necessary to fix the part which labor-management poli-
cies, industrial reconversion and Federal aid will play in advancing
Pittsburgh. The kind of mentality which carmot understand the tar-
iff as a local issue in an industrial city has no part in a political cam-
paign for any leading office. He should rather set himself up in busi-
ness selling buggy whips, linen dusters and moustache cups/'29
With the minds of Pittsburghers, along with other Americans,
occupied with the conclusion of the war, it is not clear whether anyone
was listening to either Lawrence or his opponent. The local news-
papers produced several editorials complaining about small crowds
at political rallies and apathy on the part of the voters. Election day
proved their predictions accurate when less than 40 percent of the
voters of either party turned out to vote. With nearly full control of
the Democratic organization, Lawrence won the primary election by
a more than two to one margin. He captured all thirty-two wards.”
The victorious candidate's budding new image was quite unnec-
essary to win over the already committed party regulars. However,
it established a base from which he would launch his election cam-
paign. It also provided him with the key to the office that would vin-
dicate him, in his own mind, from the charges leveled at him during
the Harrisburg trials. A victory in November, furthermore, while it
would not close the wounds created by the death of his two sons,
would create a new outlet for his energies and play a major role in
the healing process. Iust as the trauma of the war was coming to an
* end, Lawrence's nomination marked the end of his period of personal
tragedy and political eclipse. A new era was beginning.

1940-1945
A City in Trouble

The Pittsburgh of David Lawrence's youth led the nation in the pro-
duction of iron, steel, and glass and in the mining of bituminous coal.
The advantages of location, abundant natural resources, and cheap
transportation attracted capital, entrepreneurs, and workers to the
city. Men such as Andrew Carnegie, George Westinghouse, and Henry
Clay Frick combined creative financing, technological innovation,
and organizational talents to build multimillion-dollar national cor-
porations. Their heavy industrial firms dominated the city and spurred
the development of the nation. The Pittsburgh central business dis-
trict became a monument to their genius, sprouting multilevel build-
ings bearing their names. Their companies, in turn, provided jobs for
the thousands of immigrants who arrived m the city in the period
between the Civil War and World War I. In the first twenty years of
Lawrence's life the city's manufacturing output more than quad-
rupled, and the population exploded from 343,000 in 1890 to 533,000
in 1910, the greatest period of growth in the city's history} The dra-
matic expansion of industry and a burgeoning population, not sur-
prisingly, resulted in an unprecedented building boom and the estab-
lishment of new neighborhoods and industrial communities all over
the Pittsburgh area. Streetcar suburbs and immigrant communities
developed within the city, while manufacturing towns such as Brad-
dock, Homestead, and Aliquippa sprang up along the banks of the
region's three rivers. The two decades were clearly the most dynamic
in the two-hundred-year history of the city.

By 1910, however, the city was already beginning to show signs
of economic decline. Growth in industrial production tapered off as
the development of by-product coke ovens permitted steel finns to
relocate near the source of ore rather than near the coal mines. In-

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198 <1 Don't call me boss

vestment capital began to flow to new markets, and entrepreneurial
talent ceased to find Pittsburgh an attractive field for its creative ener-
gies. None of the new industries that have developed in the United
States since 1910 had their birth in Pittsburgh. On the contrary, sev-
eral companies, including Charles Schwab’s Bethlehem Steel, aban-
doned the city altogether.

The ”maturation of the Pittsburgh economy” that occurred in the
second decade of the century left the city with aging capital goods
industries highly dependent upon the condition of the national econ-
omy. This dependency ”heightened the vulnerability of the district's
population to cyclical swings . . . increasing both intensity of fluctua-
tions and vulnerability to depression.”-2 The city experienced relatively
full employment and economic expansion in times of national growth,
such as the periods of the two world wars, but suffered more severely
and longer than other areas in times of recession and depression. Its
economy in the post—World War II period would be dangerously sus-
ceptible to national economic cycles.

If the decline of industry in Pittsburgh left a weakened economic
structure in its wake, it also left an indelible mark on the physical
and social condition of the city. As many nineteenth- and early-
twentieth-century visitors commented in print, the indignities the
physical city suffered in the name of profit illustrated all the worst
features of the free enterprise system. ”In Pittsburgh,” one English
observer noted in 1913, ”man befouled the streams, bedraggled their
banks, ripped up the cliffs, hacked down the trees, and dumped refuse
in their stead. He sowed the imposing heights with hovels and set
beneath them black mills to cover everything far and wide with a
film of smoke.” The famous Pittsburgh Survey of 1907-13 filled sev-
eral volumes attesting to the uninhabitable conditions in places such
as Skunk Hollow in East Liberty; Painter's Row, adjacent to the South
Side Carnegie mill; and Tammany Hall, near the neighborhood of
Lawrence's youth. The city was legitimately earning its reputation
as ”Hell with the lid taken off/'3

During the next thirty years, while some conditions improved,
the city continued to stagnate. An overreliance on one basic industry
produced violent economic swings of boom and bust. During World
War I, the total production of the city rose by nearly one-third, and
manufacturing during World War II reached all-time highs. The
heights of the boom years were matched by unprecedented lows dur-
ing the Depression. By 1933 overall production was only one-third of
its 1929 level, and one-third of the city's white population and nearly
one-half of its black population were without work.

A City in Trouble [>

An erratic economy during most of the twentieth century no
doubt retarded investment in the city. Few mills opened or expanded
except during the war period, and building activity in the central
business district remained minimal. The economic malaise contrib-
uted to a general blight spreading throughout the city. A survey by
the Econometric Institute of New York conducted in early I94 5 showed
that the city's real estate assessments declined by $206 million dur-
ing the 1933-44 period, a decline that caused the city to lose approxi-
mately $6 million per year in real estate taxes.4 In the central busi-
ness district, while several high-rise office buildings had been erected
in the 19203, the last major construction, the Gulf Building, had been
completed in 1932. None was planned for the postwar period.

Of equal concern was the condition of the existing structures in
the business district. A tour through the central city in 1945 would
have confirmed that ”when Lawrence first ran for office in 1945, he
was seeking the keys to a dying city/'5 Near the Point, where the three
rivers join, was a thirty-six-acre area regularly inundated by spring
flood waters. This formerly historic section became the site of a ma-
jor battle between railroad entrepreneurs during the latter part of the
nineteenth century that resulted in the city's potentially most valu-
able land becoming a ”dilapidated warren of decayed buildings, ware-
houses, parking lots, and ugly railroad trestles.”6 Exposition Hall,
which young David Lawrence and his companions frequently visited,
closed in 1918 and had been recently turned into a city auto pound.
The Blockhouse, the only authentic eighteenth-century structure in
Pittsburgh, originally part of the British fort, suffered the ignominy of
being surrounded by warehouses and abandoned tracks. The grounds
and the river banks were littered with debris including tires, auto-
mobile parts, and abandoned river barges.

Further back from the river, on somewhat higher ground, stood
the former neighborhood of David Lawrence. Most of the single fam-
ily homes in this once mixed residential, industrial, and commercial
area were gone, and it now contained rooming houses, vacant build-
ings, run-down hotels, and an abandoned railroad station, the Wabash,
a marbleized flatiron built by Iay Gould in 1904. Only the Mayfair
Hotel exceeded eight floors, and most buildings were under three. The
exclusive Pittsburgh Club, a rather pedestrian monument to the area's
long-gone importance, gave some relief to the grime of the neighbor-
hood. The entrance to the city was, in short, a commercial slum.7

The remainder of the inner city, while not as bad as the apex of
the triangle, also contained small pockets of blight. There were va-
cant buildings and two abandoned movie houes on Liberty and Penn

199

Biographical Sketches [> xxi

IoHN P. ROBIN. Secretary under Mayor Scully, 193 5-43 ; executive sec-
retary under Lawrence, 1946-48; executive secretary of URA,
1948- 54 ; secretary of the Commonwealth, 1954-55. A trusted Law-
rence advisor throughout his public career.

ART RooNEY. Owner of the Pittsburgh Steelers. Life-long friend of
Lawrence's.

NATALIE SAXE. Executive secretary to Richardson Dilworth, mayor of
Philadelphia.

ADOLPH SCHMIDT. Vice-president of T. Mellon and Sons. Schmidt and
Arthur Van Buskirk were Richard King Mellon’s closest personal
advisers. Later U.S. ambassador to Canada.

CoRNEL1Us SCULLY. City solicitor of Pittsburgh during the McNair ad-
ministration. Fired by McNair in 1934. Elected to city council; serv-
ed briefly as council president. Became mayor upon resignation
of McNair in 1936. Reelected 1937, 1941.

CARL SHELLEY. Republican district attorney for Dauphin (Harrisburg)
County. Prosecuted Lawrence in both his trials during the early
1940s.

R. TEMPLETON SMITH, MRS. Conservative chairwomanof the League
of Women Voters of Allegheny County. A constant and bitter foe
of Lawrence.

RAY SPRIGLE. Investigative and sometimes muckraking reporter for
the Pittsburgh Post—Gazette. Critical of Lawrence's inability to
control the police and rackets in Pittsburgh.

STEVE TooLE. Democratic alderman, First Ward, 1898-1906. As a youth,
Lawrence ran errands for Toole.

AL TRoNzo. Early Democratic opponent of Lawrence's; elected to state
House of Representatives in 1934, later became strong Lawrence
supporter. Held several Allegheny County and City of Pittsburgh
oflfices.

ARTHUR VAN BUSKIRK. Executive secretary of T. Mellon and Sons. Aide
and confidant to Richard King Mellon. Often spoke for Mellon
on the board of the Allegheny Conference on Community
Development.

WARREN VAN DYKE. Highly respected Democratic state chairman,
1926-34. Generally considered to be the heir to Governor Earle in
1938. A critical illness prevented his running.

ROBERT VANN. Black attorney, editor of the Pittsburgh Courier. Vann
led the city's black population into the Democratic party, 1933-34.

IoHN VERoNA. Long-time political boss of Pittsburgh's Third Ward.
Shifted from Republican to Democratic party in 1934. Implicated
in the state gravel scandal but died before he could testify.

200 <1 Don't call me boss

avenues. Only the Ienkins Arcade and Home's department store on
the western end of Liberty Avenue, the historic Moose headquarters
on Penn Avenue, and several I92os-style movie palaces improved the
shabby condition of the city's two widest streets. Structures on the
Monongahela River side presented a similarly mixed picture. Water
Street, separated from the river by an ugly highway built in 1938, of-
fered a continuous string of late nineteenth-century three- and four-
story loft buildings, which were structurally sound and, if maintained,
aesthetically pleasing, but an estimated 40 percent were in deteriorat-
ing condition.3 Wood and Smithfield streets, two major north-south
arteries, contained no structures of significance except the classical
style Mellon Building and the Oliver Building erected in 1908. The
nineteenth-century financial district, Fourth Avenue contained a num-
ber of impressive banking temples built during the height of the in-
dustrial era, but these were covered with soot and grime. Two bright
spots among the overall decay and neglect could be found: Grant
Street, with its historic court house and City-County Building, the
striking Gothic Union Trust Building, and several impressive office
buildings, and Seventh Avenue, dominated by the Gulf and Koppers
buildings erected in the 1930s.

Adjacent to and directly above these sat the Hill District, a large,
mixed residential and commercial area that walled Pittsburgh in from
the east. Once separated from the city by ”Grant’s Hill,” it became
the neighborhood of first settlement for the thousands of new immi-
grants during the nineteenth century. It was in 1930 the most ethni-
cally and racially integrated and most densly settled area of Pitts-
burgh. By 194 5, although it was becoming increasingly black, it still
contained significant Italian, Russian, and Greek pockets. As host
to several generations of poor immigrants, the Hill District exhibited
all of the characteristics of a slum. Crowded living conditions, inade-
quate sanitation facilities, dilapidated structures, and a high incidence
of disease and crime all pervaded the area.9

The Hill District was the city's worst residential slum, but it was
by no means the only one. Neighborhoods in East Liberty, Home-
wood, Hazelwood, and Manchester, on the North Side, and several
South Side communities all contained substandard housing.” The
Pittsburgh Housing Authority erected eight dwelling projects accom-
modating 18,000 persons by the end of the war, but the effort barely
scratched the surface. A new mayor entering office in 194 5 could ex-
pect housing to occupy a considerable amount of his time.

A deteriorating central business district, inadequate and substan-
dard housing, and an economy dominated by a single industry were

A City in Trouble [> 201

not the only problems facing postwar Pittsburgh. Floods, the ever pres-
ent pall of smoke, health concerns, and the absense of cultural ameni-
ties all detracted from the quality of life.

The residents of Pittsburgh expected armual floods. Each spring,
as the accumulation of snow in the mountains throughout western
Pennsylvania melted, the creeks fed the passing Allegheny River,
transforming it into a quickly moving brown ribbon strewn with fallen
trees and other debris. By the time the river had traveled its hundred
mile course to Pittsburgh, collecting the deposits of numerous streams
and creeks along the way, it was well over its shallow banks. Com-
munities along the way such as Franklin and Kittanning, some fifty
miles from Pittsburgh, and Sharpsburg and Millvale, nearby street-
car suburbs, were flooded first, and the extent of the damage there
usually gave Pittsburgh a hint of its own fate. The city’s Strip Dis-
trict, the lower portion of the Point, most of the lower North Side,
and parts of the South Side experienced regular flooding. When the
waters receded, people performed the familiar tasks. Businesses re-
placed damaged equipment, and everyone pumped out cellars and at-
tempted to wash away the accumulated muck and sewage. In many
cases the smells and dampness did not diminish until midsummer.

Residents who could not afford to move to higher ground and
businesses that needed access to railroad or barge transportation
learned to live with the problem. Most considered it a serious but
unavoidable inconvenience. However, occasionally the flooding be-
came more than a nuisance. A quick spring thaw accompanied by
heavy rains could trigger massive destruction along the entire Monon-
gahela and Allegheny river plains. When the two raging torrents
reached Pittsburgh, they carried along with them barges, railroad cars,
trees, parts of buildings and bridges, and anything else in their paths.
The city usually bore the brunt of these major floods.

Five times between 1900 and I94 5 the rivers at the Point exceeded
flood stage by seven or more feet. The worst of these occurred on St.
Patrick's Day 1936, when a combination of a heavy snow accumula-
tion and a sudden thaw in mid March resulted in a forty-six-foot-high
wall of water (twenty-one feet over flood stage) that swept into Pitts-
burgh. It submerged mills, factories, and low-cost housing along the
river banks and stores and offices in the central business district, and
it halted the city's water and electrical supply. When it crested, eleven
feet of water covered nearly half of the main commercial section of
the city. The disaster took 47 lives, injured 2800, and left 6 7, 5oo
homeless. The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers estimated the property
loss at $50 million.“

202 <1 Don't call me boss

The recurrent flooding clearly discouraged any potential en-
trepreneur from investing in the city. Solving the problem was the
single most important factor in the rehabilitation of the city.” Fed-
eral, state, and local authorities made a start on flood control, but
World War H interrupted their efforts. The major reservoirs remained
on the drawing boards and Pittsburgh's vulnerability to catastrophic
flooding continued.

If floods were the most serious problem Pittsburgh faced, in terms
of loss of life and property, smoke was the most pervasive. Pittsburgh
deserved its reputation as the ”smoky city.” The type of industry it
sustained, the availability of low-cost bituminous coal, its topogra-
phy, and increased urbanization all combined to produce a dense pall
that hung over Pittsburgh as early as 184 5. For a century, city leaders
and residents demonstrated a marked ambivalence about it. Industry
heads and workers frequently noted that the presence of smoke in-
dicated that the mills were operating, that work was available. Medi-
cal personnel were not sure whether smoke was harmful or benefi-
cial. In 1874 Dr. William Denny of the Pittsburgh Board of Health
stated: ”Strangers with weak lungs for a while find their lungs aggra-
vated by the smoke, but nevertheless asthmatic patients have found
relief in breathing it. Coal is . . . undoubtedly the cause of our supe-
rior healthfulness.”13

Attempts were made to control smoke pollution several times
during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries through munici-
pal ordinances. However, ofl-icials demonstrated their awareness of
the political volatility of the issue by failing to enforce any of them.
In fact, in 1939, the city council actually voted to eliminate the Bu-
reau of Smoke Regulation, which had been created during an earlier
reform era.”

By the beginning of Cornelius Scully’s second full term as mayor,
it had become obvious that something had to be done about the prob-
lem. In 1940, in addition to the numerous factories, which consumed
huge amounts of smoke-producing bituminous coal, 141,788 homes,
and a number of commercial establishments within the city limits
used the same fuel. To make matters worse, the five railroad lines
brought more than one hundred smoke-belching locomotives into and
out of the city each day. Finally, to heighten the crisis, the winter
of I94o—4I proved particularly difficult. Several temperature inversions
acted to produce a blanketlike effect that prevented the polluted air
from entering the atmosphere. For several days each month—once
for as long as a week—the heavy smog hung over Pittsburgh, and lights
had to be turned on in the daytime.

A City in Trouble (> 203

Smoke, of course, was not only a nuisance ; it was now recognized
as unhealthy and expensive. In 1941 Pittsburgh had the highest rate
of pneumonia of any city in the nation, with a death rate from it that
was 40 percent higher. In addition, the city was among the leaders
in other respiratory ailments, the incidence increasing in winter when
the coal-buming season was at its peak. During the November through
February period, the city received only one-third as much sunshine
as did the Allegheny County Airport, only seven miles away.15

Smoke also cost money. Industrial and residential smoke dumped
more than one hundred tons of pollutants per month on the city dur-
ing I940, two-thirds of which fell on the ”downtown, the Strip Dis-
trict, Soho, Oakland and the South Side.” The cost of additional light-
ing, building cleaning, and damage to merchandise was estimated at
nearly $4 million per year. Estimates of the armual cost of air pollu-
tion in Pittsburgh ranged from $2 million to $10 million. Perhaps the
only positive aspect of the smoke problem was that Pittsburgh was
among the nation's leading cities in the number of laundries per capita.
More than zooo employees earned a living in I28 laundries, which
constituted a $4 million industry.“

As evidence of the harmful effects of smoke mounted, the oppo-
sition to control began to crumble. As a result of urging by news-
papers and the public, Mayor Scully created the Commission for the
Elimination of Smoke, which, by July 1941 had produced a smoke con-
trol ordinance.” The city council passed the ordinance with only
one member, Edward Leonard, dissenting.

But, as with flood control, World War II hampered implementa-
tion, and air quality actually deteriorated during the 1941-45 period.
One of the first issues the new mayor would have to address would
be smoke control.

The environmental and physical conditions of the city, of course,
exercised a powerful force on its residents. Blue-collar workers, forced
by economics to remain near the site of their employment, endured
the conditions while suffering debilitating health, economic, and psy-
chological effects. Management-level workers, however, began to seek
employment elsewhere. Corporate managers complained of the diffi-
culty of retaining or recruiting competent professional workers. "The
men were willing,” one official testified, ”provided salaries were high
enough, but their wives objected.” (Even Richard King Mellon’s wife,
Constance, balked at returning to the city from Harrisburg, where
Mellon served as director of the state's selective service system.) Cor-
porate heads began contemplating moving out. A number, including
Westinghouse, ALCOA, and U.S. Steel ”had actually taken options

204 <1 Don't call me boss

on properties in other cities and were laying plans to . . . move their
offices.” Of forty businesses that had considered relocating to Pitts-
burgh during the previous several years, none actually did so. Their
major reasons were floods and air and water pollution.” Immediate
action would be required to prevent the dissolution of the Steel City.

V

If the environment and the physical plant of the city promised
nothing but problems for the two mayoralty hopefuls, the instru-
ments of reform already in place brightened the picture somewhat.
Beginning early in the twentieth century, civic-minded organizations
became interested in the improvement of the environment. The elite-
dominated Civic Club and Voters’ League used their influence to
refonn the organization of the city council, the school board, and
to bring about tax reform.” The Pittsburgh Chamber of Commerce,
similarly, helped to bring about the consolidation of Pittsburgh and
neighboring Allegheny into one city and to create the Associated
Charities to systematize the administration of charitable agencies.
The success of these organizations convinced their members, mostly
business and professional leaders, that voluntary private action would
succeed where public attempts at municipal reform, through the bal-
lot box, had failed. Their initiative, moreover, permitted them to de-
termine when and where they would intervene. The private volun-
tary association became the model for municipal reform movements
in Pittsburgh for the next three-fourths of a century.

Three significant voluntary organizations existed in the summer
of 1945: the Pittsburgh Regional Planning Association, the Pennsyl-
vania Economy League, and the Allegheny Conference on Commu-
nity Development. Each played a vital role in the redevelopment of
the city. Other private sector agencies such as the Golden Triangle
Association and later the Regional Industrial Development Corpora-
tion also contributed, but to a lesser degree.

The Pittsburgh Regional Planning Association emerged from an
earlier organization— the Citizens’ Committee on City Plan— formed
by men such as William L. Mellon, Richard B. Mellon, and Howard
Heinz, which saw as its major task the development of a general
physical plan for Pittsburgh. Spearheaded by an architect, Frederick
Bigger, it commissioned a comprehensive plan, which the city coun-
cil adopted but failed to implement?“ Fifteen years later, the renamed
organization, now under the direction of Wallace K. Richards, con-
tinued the effort by hiring the famed New York plarmer Robert Moses
to prepare a comprehensive highway program for the city. The de-

A City in Trouble l> 205

sign produced by the controversial plarmer bore a striking resemblance
to the earlier one and touched off a furor over who should receive
credit, but again no immediate action was taken. The Moses plan,
along with ideas from its predecessor, became the basis for the later
redevelopment of the central business district. The Pittsburgh Re-
gional Plarming Association itself would serve as the technical and
planning branch of the renewal.

The Pennsylvania Economy League had been created in 193 5.
Funded by contributions from business and corporate executives, it
conducted research aimed at efficient management of municipalities
in Pennsylvania. During the mid 1930s, for example, it recommended
to the mayor of Pittsburgh that the government could operate more
efficiently if it prepared and followed an armual budget, a suggestion
Scully acted upon. The organization originally provided research
only for government agencies, but its Western Division soon offered
a similar service to the private agencies concerned with urban re-
newal in Pittsburgh. The Pennsylvania Economy League authored or
co-authored a number of pieces of legislation important to the revital-
ization of the city. League members, because of their dual role in ser-
vicing both sectors, soon became an important link between govem-
ment and private leaders.

The most significant private organization, however, was the Alle-
gheny Conference on Community Development (ACCD). The original
idea for the conference (at first named the Allegheny Conference on
Postwar Community Planning) is attributed by some to Robert E.
Doherty, president of the Carnegie Institute of Technology, alone,
and by others to Doherty and Wallace K. Richards, director of the
Pittsburgh Regional Plarming Association, simultaneously. But all
agree that it was after Richard K. Mellon became interested that
business and civic leaders were successfully brought together to form
the umbrella organization for a ”super planning group” to coordinate
the postwar redevelopment of Pittsburgh.

During 1944 an organizational structure was created and the con-
ference was incorporated as a nonprofit research and plarming orga-
nization. A Sponsoring Committee was established consisting of sixty
leaders in business, industry, finance, labor, education, and public
administration. To ensure cooperation from the public sector, the
mayors of Pittsburgh, McKeesport, and Duquesne, the Allegheny
County commissioners, and the head of Pittsburgh City Council were
invited to become ex-officio members. The heart of the organization,
however, was the executive committee, originally ten members from
education, business, and planning and research. The group eventu-

206 <1 Don't call me boss

ally became a who's who of the Pittsburgh business world. By 1950
the committee was made up of the presidents and chief executive
officers of the fourteen major commercial, financial, and manufac-
turing interests in the city. A key feature of the executive committee
was the provision that members were elected as individuals, not as
representatives of their companies. Composed of what one observer
called ”action people,” the committee could execute any plan it de-
sired without having to clear it with superiors. Thus the members
could not send a substitute to represent them. Interestingly, the one
exception was Richard K. Mellon, who never belonged to the execu-
tive committee but delegated representation of his interests to his
aides Adolpf Schmidt and Arthur Van Buskirk. Schmidt explained
this exception as a result of Mellon’s power. ”When Mr. Mellon asked,
let's say, the President of the Gulf Oil Corporation or of the Koppers
Company or of the Aluminum Company [ALCOA] to participate in
this effort, the association through the bank and through the family
holdings were such that they were very pleased to assist. . . . The mere
fact that he asked them was sufficient/'21 By 194 5 the executive com-
mittee had established twelve standing committees to investigate
such matters as housing and neighborhood development, land use
and zoning, health and welfare, cultural development, and public
improvements.

Thus, by war’s end the city benefited from the presence of three
crucial private sector civic service organizations, each with a clearly
defined task. The Pittsburgh Regional Plarming Association drew up
the plans; the Pennsylvania Economy League conducted the research
on financing; and the Allegheny Conference on Community Develop-
ment, in consultation with city and county government agencies, car-
ried out the plans.

However, the presence of such well organized, well financed, pri-
vate sector organizations, no matter how civic minded, does not guar-
antee success. The history of urban America is littered with similar
reform groups that had little or no lasting impact on their communi-
ties. Indeed, the earlier unsucessful attempts by the Pittsburgh Re-
gional Planning Association, the Chamber of Commerce, and other
civic organizations illustrate the futility of trying to implement change
in the community without the cooperation of both private and pub-
lic sectors. The inclusion of elected public officials on the Allegheny
Conference's sponsoring committee showed that this point had been
clearly understood.

A major unanswered question, however, was the degree of coop-
eration the private organizations could expect from the mayor and

A City in Trouble [> 207

city council. To be sure, overtures had been made, and several promi-
nent people serving the private agencies had worked closely with the
Scully administration, but public-private cooperation was by no means
guaranteed. The Allegheny Conference, the key organization on the
private side, was composed of the cream of Pittsburgh's elite. The
executive committee was enormously wealthy, Protestant, educated
at the best eastern universities, and 100 percent Republican. Several
members had contributed generously, and would continue to do so,
to the campaigns of local and national Republican candidates. A vic-
tory by Republican Robert Waddell in the mayoral election would
increase the possibility of private-public cooperation, but the odds
were strongly against such an outcome.

A victory by Lawrence and the Democratic candidates for city
council, on the other hand, would probably diminish the chances of
such cooperation. Lawrence's history as a machine politician, his pre-
vious battles with Mellon interests, and his intransigence vis-a-vis
state Republicans all suggested he would be difficult to deal with.
In addition, as he himself admitted, he had little faith in the initial
announced goals. Furthermore Lawrence had little acquaintance with
those involved with the early attempts at p1anning—men who by 194 5
were expected to play a major role in the postwar redevelopment. For
example, as of the summer of I94 5, he had never heard of Richards.
It was Fiorello La Guardia’s plarmer Robert Moses who told Lawrence
about Richards.-"-2 Thus Lawrence, who had begun to talk about the
redevelopment of Pittsburgh in his primary campaign, relied upon
a New Yorker to introduce him to the person many call the idea man
behind the city's urban renewal program. Cooperation among the pri-
vate and public sectors, or among Republicans and Democrats re-
mained an uncertainty in mid 1945.

The problems of postwar Pittsburgh, which would have to be
faced by the next mayor, were immense. Urban decay, traffic conges-
tion, floods, air pollution, health problems, and a general lack of
amenities robbed residents of the basic elements of a positive quality
of life. In addition, serious economic questions and a possible com-
pany exodus threatened the very life of the city. Surprisingly, an im-
portant number of people in the private sector, maintaining the city's
tradition of private intervention, saw value in the city and deemed
it worth saving. What was needed was an administration that carried
the same perceptions.

208

1 9 4 5 — l 9 4 6
From Political Boss
to Civic Statesman

David L. Lawrence entered his first mayoralty campaign backed by
a united party (even Ioseph Guffey and William McNair made appear-
ances on his behalf), an efficient organization, a full campaign trea-
sury, and the outlines of a program designed to provide an image of
a candidate deeply concerned with civic problems. His party also held
a two-to-one registration advantage. With backing by the rank and
file Democrats a virtual certainty, Lawrence's main concern was to
broaden the party's traditional New Deal coalition. The business and
professional community would be welcomed in a concerted effort to
attack the problems plaguing the city. His task during the remainder
of the campaign would be to add flesh to the skeleton presented in
his seven-point program and to convince voters that the ”new Law-
rence” was more than a public relations image.

Lawrence's opponent, Robert Waddell, trim and ruggedly hand-
some at forty-nine years of age, embodied many of the qualities of
the ideal political candidate. A lifelong resident of the city, he had
financed his own college education through a combination of work
and a partial football scholarship. Now he was a successful business-
man with his own insurance firm and was listed in the prestigious
Pittsburgh Blue Book. Waddell became active in Republican circles
at age twenty-one and soon gained a reputation as a ”man to watch.”
His timing, however, could hardly have been worse. He ran for city
council in 1933, the year of the first Democratic sweep, and finished
well down the list of candidates. Undaunted, he ran for mayor in 1937,
easily defeating former Mayor William A. Magee, in the Republican
primary. Cornelius Scully then defeated Waddell by approximately
3o,ooo votes in the general election} The two election bids gave him
strong support among Republican party leaders, but it was his avoca-

From Boss to Statesman [> 209

tion that brought him widespread popularity. Each fall from 1922
through 1932, he spent his afternoons as head football coach at Car-
negie Institute of Technology. During this decade he compiled a record
of fifty-six wins and thirty-three losses, including four consecutive
victories over the University of Pittsburgh and two each over Notre
Dame, Georgia Tech, and Temple University. His teams played con-
sistently before audiences of more than 5o,ooo at Pitt stadium. Sev-
eral times his teams shocked the sports-minded with upset victo-
ries over those of such coaching giants as Knute Rockne and lock
Sutherland.

Waddell might have had a chance to unseat the Democratic re-
gime had his own party been able to avoid the bloodletting that cus-
tomarily characterized Republican election behavior. But the splint-
ered and disorganized party followed its usual practice. Five candidates
announced their intention to seek endorsement for nomination for
mayor. Waddell had the support of the county chainnan, Iames Ma-
lone, which gave him a strong advantage; but he was not without op-
position. Iimmy Coyne, in the last hurrah of his long career, gave his
support to a former city fire chief, Louis Conley. Coyne’s now small
but loyal following could not be expected to act in the interests of
party harmony and, although Conley later withdrew, Coyne contin-
ued to oppose Waddell. Harmar Denny, who nearly defeated Scully
in 1941, announced his candidacy, assuring the electorate that he
would resign his military commission if he won the general election.

Denny's refusal to return to Pittsburgh for the primary forced Wad-
dell to wage an unusal campaign. He wisely refused to attack the ab-
sent ”war hero” and campaigned instead against the incumbent ad-
ministration as if he were already his party's nominee. His answer
to the city's problems —and to Lawrence's seven-point program—was
his own five-point plan. Introduced just before the June primary elec-
tion, the program raised obfuscation to new heights. Waddell pledged
to ”give public services that serve,” ”run the city like a going busi-
ness,” ”get Pittsburgh out of the red,” ”make Pittsburgh a better place
to live in,” and ”never renege on this platform/'2 Perhaps fortunately
for him, few voters turned out to hear him, and he defeated Denny
by Io,ooo votes in a primary in which fewer than 40 percent of the
registered Republicans voted. His total of 29,979 votes carried twenty-
seven wards, but he lost in all the major Republican districts, an omi-
nous note on which to begin a campaign against the opposition’s most
able politician.

Neither Lawrence nor Waddell campaigned between the primary
and the customary Labor Day starting date, but both were busy. Wad-

xxii <1 Biographical Sketches

FRED T. WEIR. Early Protestant recruit into the Democratic party (1933).
Became city councilman and later judge.

IAKE WILLIAMS. Democratic party worker, held numerous patronage
positions in the Pittsburgh Democratic administrations. Brother
of Ward boss Pappy Williams.

210 <1 Don’t call me boss

dell and his principal supporter, Malone, focused their efforts on bring-
ing the Coyne and Denny followers back into the fold.

Lawrence, his party united behind his campaign, utilized the in-
terim to try to increase the size of his organization. He attended
caucuses in the wards, often referring to his ”draft” as a call from the
party to which ”any loyal member would have responded.” He empha-
sized to his followers the distinct possibility that the opponent might
win without their efforts and asked for their support. He also spoke
with labor leaders and others who usually supported the Democratic
party. The normal Roosevelt coalition was to be fully mobilized for
the fall campaign.

But, as Lawrence's campaign rhetoric had taken a new thrust, so
had his organizational efforts. George Kelly, working for Lawrence's
campaign chairman, Iohn Kane, organized ”Lawrence for Mayor” com-
mittees among attorneys, educators, engineers, and people in busi-
ness. All were to be welcomed into a new working coalition that
would lift the city from its sorry state. Lawrence spoke before each
group during the fall campaign, projecting the image of a civic leader
concerned about the municipal environment. He naturally concluded
by requesting their support in November and in the urban reform pro-
grams to come.

The campaign that fall was perhaps Lawrence's best as an orga-
nizer and campaigner. He spoke several times in every ward and
used the radio as no candidate before him had. He met with groups
in churches, school auditoriums, and fraternal and union halls. He
delivered major addresses at the Carnegie Music Hall on the North
Side, at the Syria Mosque in Oakland, and in the Motor Gardens in
East Liberty. On nearly every occasion he built upon his seven-point
platform. Speaking before an overflow crowd of more than three thou-
sand at the traditional campaign kickoff at the North Side Carnegie
Hall, Lawrence took what was probably the most courageous step of
the campaign when he denounced as irresponsible a call by Waddell
for a decrease in the city's tax rate. ”A lower tax rate for Pittsburgh
will come only when we have got at the root of our dropping realty
values—especially in the triangle. When acres of idle land are used
as parking lots in the heart of our city, only a charlatan would state
that a tax cut could be effected by economies in City Hall. You can-
not lower taxes when the tax structure has been devaluated. But you
can lower taxes when you take intelligent, forthright and determined
action to rehabilitate the entire city. That is the only way it is ever
going to be done and every intelligent businessman, banker, indus-
trialist, and home owner is going to tell you the same thing/'3

From Boss to Statesman [> 211

Lawrence continued to hammer away at the problems of urban
deterioration throughout the campaign. Specifically, he promised to
support the installation of the proposed flood control system, imple-
mentation of smoke control, recruitment of new industry, redevelop-
ment of the triangle area, and overall rehabilitation of the city's infra-
structure. In addition, he called for development of a park at the
Point, a radically restructured highway system, and construction of
a huge public auditorium.

To stress that a Lawrence administration would welcome input
and assistance from all concerned citizens, Lawrence proposed the
formation of several new groups to work in the coalition he was forg-
ing. Early in the campaign he announced that one of the first things
he would do if elected would be to establish a Pittsburgh civic unity
council, to be comprised of representatives of all religious faiths, youth
groups, racial groups, educational, cultural and civic organizations,
labor, and management. In mid October he added a second civic af-
fairs coalition: a ”business-labor-professional committee to advise on
the best future plans for Pittsburgh.” While Lawrence did not men-
tion the Allegheny Conference on Community Development by
name, he clearly had it or a similar organization in mind. He returned
to the theme of a civic unity council and a business-labor-professional
committee again and again in his subsequent talks.

Republican Waddell indicated that he too would support flood
and smoke control measures, improved housing facilities, and alle-
viation of inner-city traffic problems. However, he presented no pro-
grams, calling only for a ”business-like” solution to the problems fac-
ing the city. He placed heavy emphasis on the mismanagement and
corruption of the current administration. ”Lawrence has come out
in the open, kicking aside his stooge Scully, to seek election to the
oflice . . . which he has held in fact for the last ten years. . . . Law-
rence’s organization is a ruthless political machine which has caused
untold harm to Pittsburgh.” ”There is misgiving in the heart of every
good citizen of Pittsburgh about Dave Lawrence's political career. No-
body who knows about it trusts him. His own people don't trust him.”4

When Waddell was not attacking Lawrence, 21 number of allies
were brought out to keep up the invective. Among the most effective
was Iohn Huston. A disgruntled Democratic primary candidate for
the office now sought by Lawrence, Huston was the main hatchet
man for the Republican organization. He had jumped the sinking Re-
publican ship during the Democratic revolution of 1933 and became
active in the Democratic party. When his political ambitions were
cut short by the 1945 Lawrence ”draft,” he responded by bitterly at-

212 <1 Don’t call me boss

tacking the ”corrupt machine” and subsequently announced his re-
turn to the Republicans. ”Today I leave the Democratic party because
I not only believe—I know—that it is more corrupt, more reaction-
ary and is dominated by a more ruthless and unprincipled boss than
the Republican Party ever was in its darkest days/'5

Waddell, Huston, and their allies frequently sprinkled their talks
with references to Lawrence's two trials, but they all stopped short
of declaring him guilty of the charges. In mid October a proposal to
bring the Dauphin County district attorney, Carl Shelley, to Pitts-
burgh to discuss the trials touched off an internal furor when several
influential Republicans denounced it as ”beneath the dignity of the
party.” The Shelley speech was eventually cancelled, but Waddell gave
a synopsis of the trials in his next major address. The mudslinging
campaign reached a new low, however, on I November, when the Re-
publican organization placed in the Pittsburgh Press a half-page ad-
vertisement, which the city's other newspapers refused to run, reprint-
ing newspaper headlines from 1939 and 1940 about the indictment and
trials of David Lawrence. It was accompanied by an unusual edito-
rial explaining that, while the advertisement ”is questionable . . . we
have resolved the question in favor of giving as much freedom of ex-
pression as possible.”6

The Post-Gazette and Sun-Telegraph both denounced the adver-
tisement, as did several prominent Republicans. Nevertheless, both
newspapers endorsed Waddell, while the Pitts burgh Press reluctantly
endorsed Lawrence. All three papers commented that Lawrence had
run a clean campaign, discussed a number of important issues, and
offered convincing—one paper called them ”tempting”—programs.
They also commended Waddell for his programs, although one noted
they were ”somewhat more sweeping and less definite.” All three
praised him as a man of character and integrity, although they were
critical of the campaign tactics employed by him and his supporters.
The crucial point, however, for all three newspapers was Lawrence's
career and image as a political boss. Regardless of the effect on the
electorate of his attempt to create a new image, he did not convince
the city's editors. Even the Press, which had supported Democratic
candidates since 1933, raised the issue of his indebtedness to his party.
”Mr. Lawrence has ability, experience, and an unusual knowledge of
municipal affairs and political methods.” Those are his assets, and
if he put his head and heart into a determined effort to succeed re-
gardless of political considerations, he might do so in an outstanding
way. This, however, is a big ‘if.’ For Mr. Lawrence has been a political
boss for a number of years. It is in his blood/'7

From Boss to Statesman l> 213

The apathy that characterized the primary election disappeared
by November 1945. The war had ended. A few servicemen had re-
turned home, and many more would do so in the next few months.
The attention of the city now turned to domestic matters. The cam-
paign highlighted the problems of the city and, for some citizens,
identified the potential dangers of turning it over to a political boss.
Nearly 80 percent of the electorate turned out to select a mayor and
five city councilmen to guide Pittsburgh in its postwar redevelop-
ment. For the fourth consecutive time, the Democratic organization
swept all six positions. Lawrence's margin of victory, 14,000 votes,
was not overwhelming, but it was the most decisive Democratic tri-
umph since Scully’s in 1937. It was also Lawrence's closest mayoral
race: each of his subsequent ones brought margins in excess of 5o,ooo
votes. The general election results were never in doubt after 1945.
In winning his first elective office in his thirty-year career, Lawrence
felt vindicated of the accusations against him earlier in the decade.
”I interpret my election as a vote of confidence in me and a vote of
approval for my program. My thanks go out to all those who showed
their trust in me by voting for me. I assure them I will not betray
their trust.”3

An examination of the returns suggests that Lawrence's interpre-
tation was not far off the mark. He carried eighteen of the thirty-two
Wards, a not unexpected result considering the party's nearly Ioo,ooo
voter registration advantage. A comparison of the results with Scul-
ly’s in 1941 shows that Lawrence's victory was not due solely to his
own organization. The Democratic vote total, for example, suffered
surprising deterioration in a number of formerly solid wards, notably
in the Hill District, the Twelfth Ward (presided over by Charles A.
Papale, one of the strongest of the ward chairmen), the Sixth (Law-
renceville) and Thirteenth (Homewood-Brushton), and the Twenty-
second through Twenty-fifth wards (the entire central North Side).
Lawrence's support increased in the white-collar, professional, and
business wards, a result that suggested that his message of coopera-
tion with those groups had indeed struck a responsive chord. While
he failed to win any of those wards outright, he scored impressive
gains in upper-middle-class neighborhoods of Shadyside, Squirrel Hill,
the South Hills, and Carrick.9

Lawrence, who customarily examined vote totals in block-level
detail, clearly understood the significance of the returns. None of the
so-called powerful ward chairmen could claim that he owed his vic-
tory to him. In fact, several would be hard pressed to explain their
ward’s dismal showing. Although Lawrence was not free of political

214 <1 Don't call me boss

obligations when he moved into city hall in Ianuary, he was not
shackled with individuals to whom he owed his career.

Lawrence, no doubt, also realized that if he had not managed sub-
stantial gains over Scully’s 1941 vote in the independent and Republi-
can wards, he would have been dangerously near defeat. George Kel-
ly’s strategy of broadening the party base beyond the traditional New
Deal coalition proved an important ingredient in the party's success.
Equally important in the long run was the evidence that Lawrence
could, in fact, appeal to the business-professional segment of the com-
munity. The politician who had always appeared comfortable with
ethnic, racial, religious, or labor groups gave every indication that he
would be just as adept in the city's boardrooms or at the Duquesne
Club. The ability to associate with the elite, which he learned in the
law offices of Billy Brennen, was beginning to prove useful.

V

The mayor-elect wasted no time in moving to implement his pro-
gram. Within twenty-four hours of his election, he announced his
priorities for action. The first was smoke control. The Lawrence ad-
ministration would immediately implement the ordinances already
on the books, including the controversial controls on domestic fuel
consumption. He also pressed for the broadening of the statute to in-
clude all of Allegheny County. ”The winds do not stop at the city
line, you know. Nobody has told them where Pittsburgh ends and
Wilkinsburg or Bellevue begins.” Lawrence had already discussed the
issue with County Commissioner Kane, who guaranteed his
cooperation.” Lawrence also indicated that the proposed Penn-Lincoln
Parkway, the Point Park project, the business district restoration, and
flood control would all receive immediate attention.

In discussing his plans for his first administration, Lawrence ex-
plained two long-held beliefs that would guide his efforts: action would
be given preference over planning, and teamwork over individualism.
”One of the troubles in this city has been too many planning agen-
cies. . . . I want everybody on one team. We want to get these things
done and never mind who gets the credit. We can't be like the Irish
band. Every member of the band wanted the parade to go by his house.
So there was no parade/'11 The parade, of course, would go by Law-
rence’s home quite frequently. Most members of the band considered
it good politics and good for the project in question to give the band
leader the credit. The Republican business community adopted the
practice within a short time.

Following a five-day theater-going vacation in New York City with

From Boss to Statesman l> 215

Alyce, Lawrence returned to Pittsburgh to resume his efforts at bridge
building. ”You would have thought he was still campaigning for elec-
tion,” one observer recalled.”

Lawrence used the month before his inauguration to indicate that
his plea for a broad action coalition was not merely campaign rheto-
ric. He actively sought and accepted as many invitations to business
and professional luncheons, dinners, and meetings as he could get.
At each gathering the message was always the same: ”This adminis-
tration needs your cooperation and support to solve the problems fac-
ing the city. We will work with all groups interested in a better Pitts-
burgh. In turn we pledge an administration divorced from politics,
free of scandal.” He accomplished a minor coup five days before his
inauguration when he was invited to speak to the city's Chamber of
Commerce, a first for a Democratic mayor. The address, Lawrence
and his staff realized, would be the first crucial one of his administra-
tion and help set the tone for his relationship with the business com-
munity. Nearly 5oo members of the chamber, many of them skep-
tical if not hostile to the mayor-elect, attended.

Lawrence began by briefly outlining his dream for Pittsburgh. In
language reminiscent of urban visionaries such as Ebenezer Howard
and Louis Mumford, he called for ”a city of easy access, a center of
culture and entertainment, a clean and healthful city of good homes,
good public transportation, first rate recreational facilities.” The main
purpose of the talk quickly became clear. He told the chamber that
he accepted the invitation (which his staff had worked to secure)
”gratefully because the sooner the government of Pittsburgh and the
Chamber of Commerce of Pittsburgh get to working together, the bet-
ter for all the people of the city. The city administration should not
be afraid of the Chamber of Commerce and the Chamber of Com-
merce should not be afraid of the city administration. The future of
Pittsburgh demands teamwork, teamwork between govemnent, busi-
ness and labor . . . we have not always had such teamwork in the
past. . . . Government does not operate in a vacuum. . . . To truly suc-
ceed, . . . it needs to work in partnership, in tri-partite agreement, with
industry and labor, with men and women in every walk of life/'13

The audience listened attentively but gave no indication that they
either believed him or were willing to join in the effort he requested.
The applause at the conclusion of his address, the press noted, was
”polite.” The message, of course, would be heard outside the William
Penn Hotel ballroom. Members of the Allegheny Conference on Com-
munity Development, among others, apparently found Lawrence's
speech encouraging. They were probably not willing to place total

216 <1 Don’t call me boss

trust in the new mayor, but they were certainly intrigued. Lawrence
would have to pass additional tests to gain their confidence, but a
beginning had been made.

It is likely that no Pittsburgh mayor ever began a term of office
facing greater problems. In addition to the persistent major ones, the
Scully administration turned over what the Post-Gazette called ”ten
steaming hot potatoes,” including $13 million in delinquent tax and
water bills (50 percent of the 1946 city budget) ; outdated building codes
threatening to forestall any extensive postwar building program; city
streets riddled with potholes ; and a desperate need for additional state
aid for city projects. The new mayor also faced rampant vandalism
of city parks and vacant buildings ; traffic problems due to the absence
of off-street parking facilities and the inability of the police to en-
force parking laws; a shortage of recreation space (the last city park
had been dedicated in I920); and a need to increase taxes to finance
general improvement of the city's infrastructure.

In addition, the labor situation in Pittsburgh was volatile. Indus-
trial workers’ wages had increased during the war, but the increases
were far outstripped by productivity. Workers at first voluntarily re-
stricted pay raise demands to aid in the war effort; the Roosevelt ad-
ministration later placed mandatory restraints on wage increases.
Workers and labor leaders nationally were now anxious to reap the
deferred benefits of their labor. A rash of national and local strikes
broke out in the fall of I94 5 and continued at almost epidemic pro-
portions into early 1946. Nowhere were they more prevalent than in
Pittsburgh's industrial valley. Within ten days of Lawrence's inaugu-
ration, four major strikes occurred, idling more than 2 50,000 workers
and stopping all three of the city's major industries: steel and alumi-
num, electrical equipment, and glass. In addition, the administration
would shortly face two coal strikes, a cold storage shutdown, a fifty-
three-day hotel strike, several bus disputes, a rail strike that threat-
ened food supplies into the city, a brewery strike that resulted in sev-
eral shootings, and numerous other labor disputes.”

If the new mayor worried about the labor situation, he gave no
indication of his concern on the morning of 7 Ianuary at his inaugura-
tion in council chambers. Speaking before a friendly crowd of family,
friends, the nine-member Democratic city council, and many of the
party faithful, Lawrence did not mention labor problems. He com-
mented briefly on the physical problems of the city, warned the city
workers that he expected a full day's work from each one, and spoke
of ”looking ahead to miracles undreamed of.” Most important, he re-
peated once again the partnership message of the past four months.

From Boss to Statesman [> 217

”We are all partners in Pittsburgh, everyone of us. Government can-
not do the whole job before us. It is a citizen's job; it is industry's
job; it is labor’s job. I will work to make government in Pittsburgh
draw strength and direction from labor and from business, so that
working together we can best protect and advance the interests of
all the people/'15

After the inaugural ceremonies and a press photography session,
Lawrence spent the remainder of the afternoon closeted in the office
with his executive secretary, lack Robin, County Commissioner Kane,
and several of his closest advisers. That evening he used what the
Press called ”the most serious banquet the Democrats have ever held”
to inform party workers that he meant everything he said in his in-
augural address, particularly the comment that ”anybody on the city
payroll who doesn't want to work a full day is out.” Lawrence left
the banquet at ten o'clock to return home for a good night's rest. He
intended to begin a full-scale assault on the problems of the city in
the moming.“

For the next month Lawrence attacked one problem after another.
For example, on his second day in office, he resolved an issue that
had plagued Scully for nearly five years — garbage collection. Because
of political appointees who refused to work, inefficient equipment,
and jurisdictional labor disputes, the system frequently ground to a
standstill. Residents complained, and garbage collection had been a
major issue in the recent election. In a fifteen-minute meeting the
mayor issued a blunt edict to his new superintendent of refuse, Iames
Hughes, and three local teamsters’ union officials: garbage ”must be
collected—and collected regularly. I will accept no excuses from any-
one.” Those who failed to comply would be fired.” Lawrence also an-
nounced that a new, larger incinerator would be ordered within a few
weeks. The issue, which had been a constant source of newspaper
editorials and letters to the editor, disappeared from the press almost
immediately. It was the first time Lawrence challenged organized
labor in the city, and he gave notice that he would not be ”labor’s
boy.” He would demonstrate the point over and over again through-
out the year.

All of the early efforts of the Lawrence administration were ac-
companied by extensive publicity and occasional theatrics. For ex-
ample, in selecting the World War II veterans’ housing sites the mayor
and a six-car delegation of officials toured the city in fifteen-degree
weather. At each potential site the mayor and several officials were
photographed climbing small fences, crossing icy fields, and collect-
ing brambles on their clothing, all in the line of duty. Other instances

218 <1 Don't call me boss

were the garbage problem and the mayor's exchange with the presi-
dent of the school board, H. B. Kirkpatrick, over what Lawrence con-
sidered the underutilization of buildings. But perhaps the most im-
portant publicity the mayor could have had at this early date was a
newspaper photo of himself and several business leaders, including
Alan Scaife, and Leon Falk, armouncing the begimiing of a fund-raising
campaign for a new city nursing school. The formation of that com-
mittee demonstrated Lawrence's willingness to work with the corpo-
rate heads of Pittsburg .13

The publicity sought by Lawrence in the early stage of his admin-
istration may appear uncharacteristic of a man who for more than
twenty years was content to wield power from behind the scenes.
Even though he was always a public man, Lawrence never went out
of his way to seek publicity and often preferred to avoid it. As a poli-
tician, of course he always realized the value of a carefully staged
photograph or a well-chosen quotation. However, it was the govem-
ment official, not the politician, whom he expected to stand in the
limelight. Citizens should be made aware of the positive activities
of their elected ofl-icials, whom they would remember and reward with
their vote in future elections. Publicity for public officials was sim-
ply good politics, and Lawrence acted accordingly.

Lawrence also appeared anxious to convince the citizens of Pitts-
burgh that he was more than a politician. The actions he initiated-
challenging the teamsters’ union, announcing a blue-ribbon nursing
school committee, government reorganization, and housir1g—— appealed
to a broad spectrum of opinion. They provided concrete evidence that
the mayor intended to take action on a wide variety of issues, that
he was willing to accommodate any group interested in the welfare
of the city, and that he would challenge any group, no matter how
politically loyal they had been, if he felt their actions were detrimen-
tal to the city.

'\7

The mayor's best opportunity to demonstrate his ability and in-
tention to lead the city began early in February 1946 and stretched
through October. The event, a protracted labor dispute between the
Duquesne Light and Power Company and an independent union
headed by George L. Mueller, was a crucial point in Lawrence's career.
Restrained in his criticism of the company during the war, Mueller
began a full-scale attack early in 1945, and his statements gave evi-
dence that the impending contract negotations would be long and
arduous.” The potential effects of a long power strike on the city

From Boss to Statesman [> 219

eventually involved the mayor. The dispute tested his leadership
skills in many ways but ultimately elevated him in the eyes of many
residents from city boss to civic statesman.

The dispute began in late 1945 when Mueller presented a 37 per-
cent wage increase demand to the company head, Pressly H. McCance.
The company countered by offering a 7.5 percent increase, pointing
out that this would place wages ”among the highest in the United
States including electric utilities in such cities as New York, New-
ark, Philadelphia, Boston, Cleveland, Baltimore, Cincinnati and oth-
ers.” McCance also reminded Mueller that the existing contract con-
tained a no-strike clause. Negotiations were sporadic and unsuccessful
over the next several months. On 9 February Mueller issued a strike
notice, effective 4 A.M. on I2. February, that would make Pittsburgh
the first city in the nation to experience such a strike and would cut
off all but emergency power to both Allegheny and Beaver counties.”

Faced with a potential catastrophe, Lawrence swung into action.
Proclaiming a state of emergency, he called the secretary of labor in
Washington to request that the federal government seize the light
company. At the same time he moved to marshal the city's emer-
gency facilities. Police and firemen were ordered on twenty-four—hour
duty, and IOOO auxiliary police were to be hired. He also asked the
council for a $25,000 appropriation for emergency supplies. During
the next twenty-four hours, at the mayor's request, union and man-
agement officials and federal and state conciliators met in his office
in a last attempt to avert the strike. Lawrence and Robin remained
on hand.

When the futility of the effort became clear, Lawrence decided
to appeal to the citizens of Pittsburgh to put pressure on the union
to continue negotiations. At 9:30 P.M. on II February, he delivered an
emotional address over radio station KQV ”to the people of Pittsburgh
and the several thousand men and women who work for the Du-
quesne Light Company.” Using the radio as effectively as an experi-
enced actor, he began by apologizing to the audience for sounding
weary. ”I have been in almost continuous session for thirty-six hours,
seeking to avoid what is rightly called a disaster for Pittsburgh. If my
voice is tired, it is because I have worn it out talking.” The mayor
then explained that the independent union officials, ”neither CIO nor
A F of L,” had refused to negotiate any further. He placed the bur-
den of the strike on the backs of the union workers. ”I cannot believe
that people whom we know, people who are part of our community,
people who are one with us, will plunge our city into darkness —risk
the lives of people near death's door in our hospitals, menace the

Don't call me boss

220 <1 Don't call me boss

mother going down into the valley of shadows so that life can come
into the world. I simply carmot believe it of the good people —the good
citizens —the good neighbors whom we know as workers in our pub-
lic utility system.”-”-1

He detailed the dire results of such a strike and made a fervent
plea to the union. ”I ask you even at this late hour, for a reconsidera-
tion, for a sober second thought. I have championed the cause of labor
all my life, and I am speaking now with that record to support me.
I think I have earned a trust. . . . Keep the lights on over Pittsburgh
while we work to see that [you] get a fair deal from the community
that [you] have treated so squarely.” He concluded with a subtle but
clear warning to the union. ”But my first duty, and my only duty is
to all the people of this city. . . . Whatever may take place we will
protect the health, the safety, and the welfare of all the people of
Pittsburgh/'22

The appeal brought quick praise in the editorials of the city's news-
papers but no action from Mueller. The union struck the power com-
pany at 4:00 A.M. as planned. Lawrence resumed his efforts early in
the morning. He and Robin met with union and company officials
and with state and federal conciliators, CIO and AFL officials, and
Commissioner Kane and the Reverend Charles Owen Rice, both con-
sidered friends of labor. All pleaded with Mueller to call off the strike,
but to no avail. When reminded at one point that ”God declared, ‘Let
there be light’,” Mueller responded, ”God doesn't run the independent
union/'23

Lawrence's efforts continued all day. He spoke with Governor
Martin and with Truman advisers, attempting to pressure the presi-
dent to act on his seizure request. Truman, involved in his own labor
difficulties, reluctantly promised to study the matter and respond
within twenty-four hours. The mayor, angered by the postponement,
called a midnight press conference at which he assailed the federal
government, but not Truman by name, for its failure to act. The presi-
dent rejected Lawrence's request early on the morning of the thir-
teenth.24

Intervention by the federal government proved urmecessary in any
case, for the erratic Mueller, in a surprise announcement over radio
station KQV, agreed to suspend the strike and begin negotiations the
following Monday.

The strike lasted just nineteen and one-half hours, but that was
long enough to create a new role for David Lawrence and enhance
the image he had worked to create over the past nine months. He
was now viewed as a willing and fair labor mediator who could be

From Boss to Statesman l> 221

called upon to assist in an impasse. His assistance would be requested
repeatedly for the rest of his life. Many also began to view Lawrence
in a different light. All three newspapers hailed his efforts at resolv-
ing the crisis, probably giving him more credit for the temporary solu-
tion than he or his aides would have claimed. Praise was heaped upon
him, and feature stories and photographs emphasized his stamina and
determination and asserted that he had earned a well-deserved rest
after ”service well beyond the call of duty/'25

To be sure, not everyone in Pittsburgh joined in the praise. Labor
leaders, while not in sympathy with the independent Mueller, began
to wonder about Lawrence's loyalties. One even suggested that his
actions during the strike were promanagement. Others saw his ef-
forts against an independent union as a political ploy designed to gain
the business support he had been courting. One such individual ironi-
cally was Walter Giesey, who later became the mayor's executive
secretary and closest confidant. ”I was working for the Bulletin In-
dex then,” Giesey recalled, ”and my reaction was that of a young
liberal—maybe radical—and I recall when he went on the radio and
referred to this as ’not an A F of L union . . . not a CIO union, it's an
independent union,’ I thought you dirty son-of-a-bitch. You wouldn't
dare do that if it were one of the others [national unions]/'26 Undoubt-
edly, Lawrence had inserted himself into a situation where the po-
litical risk with regard to labor was real but minimal. The potential
for reward, on the other hand, heavily outweighed the danger. In the
eyes of most, including the business community, Lawrence's action
seemed the right thing to do and demonstrated his independence from
organized labor.

Mueller’s armouncement of his willingness to continue negotia-
tions, unfortunately, did not free the city from the threat of a strike.
Union and management had met more than thirty times over the past
four months and now had merely agreed to start over. They were no
closer to settlement than when negotiations began in September, al-
though the union had demonstrated that its threat to strike was seri-
ous. All parties, including the mayor, would rest over the weekend
and begin again on Monday.

The following week's discussion in city hall brought no end to
the impasse, and Mueller’s announcement that he would resume
strike action in four days initiated a new round of activity on Law-
rence’s part. Resorting to public and private charmels, the mayor and
a team of allies attempted to put pressure on both sides to settle or
submit to arbitration. In another radio address, he called for help from
five sources: the CIO, the AFL, the Chamber of Commerce, the fed-

222 <1 Don’t call me boss

eral government, and the public. ”This is a mighty serious situation.
It's time everybody in Pittsburgh arouses himself and uses any influ-
ence [he] may have with either the company or the union to prevent
the paralyzing of the city.” Meanwhile, his office would insist on re-
sumption of around-the-clock talks. Behind the scenes, the mayor's
staff contacted any and all organizations that would be affected by
the strike to ask them to put pressure on both sides. The response
was hundreds of phone calls, telegrams, and letters to the union and
company heads. The pastor of one Catholic church even invoked di-
vine intervention by asking his congregation to pray with him for
arbitration. The appeals fell on deaf ears—both divine and mortal-
and neither side softened its position. Exasperated, Lawrence re-
quested a meeting with the president of Duquesne Light, Pressly
McCance, who had steadfastly refused to take part in the negotia-
tions. The two met for more than an hour in a closed-door session
on the morning of the twenty-fourth. Reporters huddled outside the
door later wrote that ”angry voices could be heard . . . and most of
the shouting was coming from the mayor.” Lawrence later told the
press that he told McCance to ”do something or the company would
be responsible for the strike.” That afternoon McCance announced
that the company would submit to arbitration. Two hours later
Mueller did the same. But both sides still had to agree to arbitration
terms. Lawrence called an immediate joint session, but it deteriorated
into what he called ”filibustering and arguing about where to place
semicolons.” At 8:00 P.M. the mayor declared, ”There will be no ad-
joumments. Meetings will continue all night if necessary/'27

The meeting continued not only all night but until 11:00 P.M. the
next day, when Mueller rushed a negotiated arbitration agreement
off to his executive committee for approval. Thirty-five minutes
later— twenty-five minutes before the new strike deadline —he phoned
the mayor's office: the committee had voted twenty-seven to four-
teen to submit the agreement to the membership. Iack Robin shouted
to all in the room, ”T he strike is postponed for one week. The union
will vote on arbitration.” The membership ratified the agreement, but
the settlement satisfied neither side. On 13 April Mueller declared
that he expected to negotiate a new contract, beginning in August.”
Once again the disaster had been averted, but only temporarily.

Lawrence, as earlier, received most of the credit for the settle-
ment. The Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph went as far as to say that he
demonstrated the wisdom of Solomon, while the Press, which had
”reluctantly” endorsed him four months earlier, offered ”just another

From Boss to Statesman [> 223

word of praise for our new mayor, and his stamina and energy. Pitts-
burgh never saw anything like this previously/'29

Lawrence's growing immersion in labor mediation could hardly
help the achievement of his campaign goals during his first year in
office. The power crisis, for example, had just been postponed when
he became embroiled in the I15-day Westinghouse electrical workers’
strike. Once again he emerged as a fair participant, somewhat restor-
ing his standing with organized labor. Lawrence participated in
demonstrations urging management to grant the I8. 50: per hour wage
increase demanded by the union. However, when violence broke out,
he gently chastised workers for breaking the law, softening his re-
marks by calling the CIO president, Philip Murray ”one of our coun-
try’s and one of our city's ablest men.” When the workers dispersed
shouting cheers for Murray and Lawrence, a potentially volatile situa-
tion had been defused.3° Lawrence demonstrated his willingness to
meet with both sides when he invited Gwilym Price, president of
Westinghouse, to city hall. -

A number of other strikes directly affecting the city commanded
Lawrence's attention that year. In May he ordered city trucks to cross
railroad workers’ picket lines and enter warehouses to pick up food
destined for city hospitals and other institutions. He also became in-
volved as a part-time mediator in a hotel employees’ and a brewery
workers’ strike.

But it was the power dispute that continued to demand his time.
In August, when Mueller set a new strike deadline, Lawrence called
McCance and Mueller to his oflfice and lectured them both on the
responsibilities of power. ”The American people, our own people of
Pittsburgh, are long suffering and very patient. But they will not per-
mit the abuse of power they have conferred. . . . The public utilities
live by the sufferance of the public. . . . if the terms of that grant are
violated, if service is not continuous, the people through their gov-
ernment will act/'31 Lawrence became directly involved in the nego-
tiations early in September, and when the strike was averted by a
court-ordered five-day injunction issued one minute before the strike
deadline, hundreds of letters and telegrams poured into city hall con-
gratulating the mayor. He and Robin celebrated by taking a rare after-
noon off to attend a movie.

But the reprieve was only temporary. Calling the injunction a
”scrap of paper,” Mueller ordered his workers to strike on 25 Septem-
ber. This time there was no last-minute solution. The city was plunged
into darkness. ”Night travelers to Pittsburgh had the unnerving ex-

224 <1 Don’t call me boss

perience of coming into a city illuminated largely by candles. And
the farther they went into the dimmed-out city, the deeper grew the
sense of having strayed into some darker century or into that ice age
projected by the gloomier prophets of industrial paralysis. . . . No
streetcars and few busses were running. A picket line tie-up of coal
trucks knocked out the central steam plant heating most of the big
downtown buildings and department stores, restaurants, and other
businesses closed down for lack of light and heat. Office workers hitch-
hiked in and out of town as best they could, climbed long flights of
dark stairs to work, huddled in coats and sweaters in stone cold of-
fices. . . . Pittsburgh appeared more than ever a city under siege/'32

If the situation seemed to have reached its low point, citizens were
shocked by the events of the next several days. On 26 September a
three-judge panel met to hear the city's request for a permanent in-
junction. In the process the court demanded that Mueller apologize
for his ”scrap of paper” statement. He refused. The two Republican
judges stunned Mueller and city officials by sentencing him to a one-
year prison term for contempt of court. The reaction was almost im-
mediate. National labor leaders attacked the Lawrence-induced in-
junction, while local union oflicials called sympathy strikes. The
following day, several thousand workers marched on city hall. The
Reverend Charles Owen Rice was booed and forced to give up attempts
to talk to the group. Chanting ”We want Mueller” and ”Free Mueller,
jail Lawrence,” they left no doubt that Lawrence had lost standing
among some Pittsburgh workers. ”It was horrible,” Rice recalled. ”I
thought I could talk to them, but there were Mueller’s friends out
there who were like locusts. They were screaming furiously/'33 To
make matters worse, Lawrence's own party had adopted a state plat-
form plank condemning the use of injunctions on the very day that
the city solicitor, Anne X. Alpem, was in court requesting one. Law-
rence's Pittsburgh problems had prevented him from attending the
platform meeting.

Lawrence knew he had his back to the wall. He could press the
injunction issue ,- the judges had already indicated that they were will-
ing to find all nine union officials in contempt. Iailing them might
persuade the membership to return to work, but the past twenty-four
hours suggested just the opposite: the union would have ten martyrs
instead of one. A second option seemed even more remote; the city
could wait out the strike, hoping that the federal government would
step in. Lawrence had been in continuous contact with the secretary
of labor, however, and knew Truman was not inclined to act in the
face of the growing labor reaction to the injunction. Furthermore,

From Boss to Statesman l> 225

with the growing number of sympathy strikes, delay would cause
the city to collapse.

After a meeting of Lawrence, Robin, Alpem, Kane, and several
other members of the inner circle, it was decided that only one op-
tion was open. Alpem would ask the court to lift the injunction and
would request that Mueller be released from jail. The situation had
become so desperate that only a complete surrender would get the
stalled negotiations moving. The court agreed to Alpem’s request the
next day.

Mueller’s release merely restored the status quo, and Lawrence
and his staff spent the next several weeks laboring to maintain nego-
tiations. By mid October Mueller’s support began to erode. A com-
mittee of rar1k and file workers called for a vote on arbitration, and
sympathetic unions began returning to work. A shooting at one Du-
quesne Light and Power Company power plant, which damaged a
6o,ooo-volt generator, strengthened the feeling against Mueller. Un-
able to resist the growing pressure, he agreed to submit the request
for binding arbitration to a vote of the union. On 21 October, twenty-
seven days after the strike began, the workers voted 1,197 to 797 to
accept arbitration. The only strike of its kind against a major city
ended in stalemate.

Newsweek pictured Lawrence collapsed at his desk, head in hand,
on the cover of its next issue. Letters, telephone calls, and telegrams
again deluged city hall congratulating him and thanking him for his
resolution. National magazines hailed him as ”an outstanding leader”
and ”a voice of reason.” In a local radio poll 92 percent of those asked
”thought the mayor did all he could do to avert the strike.” In some
Democratic circles he was elevated to the level of national hero. More
important, he had demonstrated to all but the most immovable of
skeptics that he held the interests of the city supreme over the in-
terests of party. His credibility, particularly among Pittsburgh's Re-
publican corporate heads, reached new heights. They would never
agree on politics, but Dave Lawrence was a man with whom they
could work.

Lawrence's role in the power and other disputes stamped him as
a man of courage and integrity, but it was not without its costs. Some
members of his own party began to question his loyalty to Demo-
cratic causes and to criticize his willingness to deal on a cooperative
basis with corporate heads. The charge of his friendliness with man-
agement would recur consistently for the remainder of his political
career.

His effort in the strike also caused him to lose control tempo-

226 <1 Don't call me boss

rarily of the state organization. In February 1946, just two days before
the first strike deadline, the state Democratic committee, in a split
vote, endorsed U.S. Senator Guffey’s candidacy for a third term. Law-
rence, detained by the strike threat, did not attend the meeting but
sent a lukewarm endorsement. The outgoing Republican governor,
Edward Martin, easily won GOP support to challenge Gufley. Law-
rence also armounced his support for the auditor general, Harold Wag-
ner for governor, but Gufley, as usual at odds with Lawrence, sup-
ported judge Guy Bard of Lancaster. The party, without Lawrence's
leadership, remained at loggerheads for the next week but eventually
settled on a compromise candidate, john S. Rice of Gettysburg. Rice,
a former state senator, was virtually unknown outside his home dis-
trict and stood little chance of upsetting the Republican choice, james
Duff, a popular progressive Republican from Carnegie. Lawrence, dis-
satisfied with his party's leading candidates and preoccupied with the
problems of the city, campaigned only sparingly in the primary and
general elections for the first time in nearly thirty years. But it is doubt-
ful that active campaigning on his part would have influenced the
outcome as Guffey and Rice were overwhelmed by more than 5oo,ooo
votes each. What is clear is that the party drifted aimlessly while he
attended to one local crisis after another. The adoption of the state
party platform condemning injunctions at the very moment when
its chairman was seeking one not only embarrassed Lawrence but gave
clear indication of his minor role in the election of 1946.

Lawrence also faced personal threats due to his efforts in the power
strike. Following the request for an injunction and the ugly scene in
front of city hall, he received many threatening letters and phone calls
and was placed under armed guard for the only time in his lengthy
career.“ He was also confronted with a potential political problem
when, in the midst of the strike, he received a letter from the power-
ful House Un-American Activities Committee requesting that he ap-
pear to explain any Communist participation in the strike. Lawrence
risked being branded as a Communist sympathizer when he fired off
a telegram in response. ”In reply to your letter of October I 5, inviting
me to testify before your committee, it is my belief that I could serve
no useful purpose there. This strike is disastrous in its effects and
in my opinion has been unnecessary because arbitration is possible,
but I have no reason to believe that any communistic influences are
influential in it/'35 Lawrence would later, in the midst of the McCar-
thy era, risk his reputation by defending those unjustly accused of
Communist leanings.

The mayor's role in the Duquesne Light and other strikes during

From Boss to Statesman [> 227

his first year in office distracted him from many of his goals, but it
built a basis of trust from which he would operate during the rest
of his mayoralty. It was a year in which Lawrence established his
credibility with a number of important groups, but it was one that
exhausted him. In a year-end interview he summarized his attitude. ”I
fervently pray the other three years Won't be like the first — if I last/'36

228

1946-1950
Creating a Renaissance:
The Environment

As the Pittsburgh Renaissance unfolded, delegations from nearly Ioo
cities and reporters from more than a dozen national magazines trav-
eled to Pittsburgh to learn the secret of the city's remarkable rede-
velopment.1 What they found, rather than a magic formula for re-
newal, was a unique blend of people and institutions that managed
to overcome fundamental differences to achieve a single goal: the
renewal of a dying city. Attempts to emulate the model in other cities
frequently failed because of their inability to create the relationships
that existed in Pittsburgh during the Lawrence era. When the mayor
assumed office in 1946, the private sector forces were already in ex-
istence, awaiting a sign from Lawrence that he intended to live up
to his campaign rhetoric. What was needed was comparable commit-
ment and purpose in the public sector. Lawrence provided an imme-
diate response.

His long-term passion for orderliness, hard work, and organiza-
tion soon became the hallmark his administration. He established
a set of routines and working relationships that seldom varied during
his thirteen years as mayor. Only strikes, election campaigns, an un-
expected crisis, or, at times, vacations interrupted his normal pro-
cedure. On the typical day his chauffeur, Marion Graves, arrived
promptly at 9:00 A.M. at Lawrence's home to drive him to the City-
County Building on Grant Street. On the ten-minute ride, Lawrence
would glance at the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and often order Graves
to pick up commuters along the way. When he arrived at the fifth-
floor office, Rita Emmerling, head of a staff of five secretaries and
a receptionist, handed the mayor the day's schedule. Copies went to
key staff members and to Mrs. Lawrence, in case of an emergency
at home. An examination of daily schedules over Lawrence's thirteen-

Creating a Renaissance: The Environment [> 229

year administration shows that, although details changed from time
to time, the routine remained remarkably constant. The following
log illustrates a typical day:

9:15 Private meeting with the mayor's executive secretary,
lack Robin, Robin's assistant, Charles McCarthy, and Park
Martin, executive secretary of the Allegheny Conference on
Community Development to discuss strategy on the Pittsburgh
Package, legislation pertaining to the city renewal program,
under consideration by the state legislature.

IO Fortieth armiversary convention of ice cream manufac-
turers in William Penn Hotel.

10:30 Weekly meeting with councilmen to discuss items
due before council that week. Representatives from North Side
Chamber of Commerce attend to discuss parking problems and
a committee from the Fraternal Order of Police offers a presen-
tation on police pension legislation.

12:15 Booster luncheon at downtown YMCA for basketball
tournament.

1:15 Meeting with ward chairmen from the South Side to
discuss residential relocation plans made necessary by the
Iones and Laughlin expansion project.

2 Meeting of Civic Unity Council in mayor's conference
room.

2:30 Memorial service for judge Ioseph Richardson in
court assignment room.

3 Address to a meeting of the League of Women Voters at
the Congress of Clubs on the Pittsburgh Package. Mrs. R. Tem-
pelton Smith raises several objections, to which the mayor re-
sponds. (Lawrence is saved from further discussion, which is
becoming heated, by a 4:00 P.M. appointment.)

4 Emergency meeting of the Chamber of Commerce to
maintain pressure for Federal aid needed in completion of the
Conemaugh Dam, a key project in the Pittsburgh district flood
control program.

5-7 Signing letters. Brief workout at the YMCA. (Law-
rence occasionally used this time to play pinochle with Frank
Ambrose, judge Primo Columbus, or Patsy McGeehan.) Gim-
bel’s reception in William Penn Hotel to meet Edward Mill-
man, one of the artists selected to work on the Gimbel’s Col-
lection of Pennsylvania Art.

7 Dinner, Rosalia Foundling and Maternity Hospital.


230 <1 Don’t call me boss

Meeting with the board of directors, of which Lawrence was a
member.

8:30 Opening of the flower show at Phipps Conservatory.

8:30 Tenth anniversary celebration of the Laundry Work-
ers International Union Local 141, Syria Mosque.

9200 Basketball game between North Catholic High
School and St. Ioseph’s of Philadelphia at Duquesne Gardens.
Mayor presents trophy. (The Phipps Conservatory, Syria
Mosque and Duquesne Gardens were all within a few blocks of
each other.)

1030 Graves drives Lawrence home?

Thus, in a routine day, the mayor met with his staff and mem-
bers of city council and several public organizations ; mended politi-
cal fences; and performed a number of ceremonial duties. It is note-
worthy that none of his day was devoted to meeting disgruntled
citizens to deal personally with their problems, as was the custom
of Chicago's Mayor Daley. He felt such problems could best be han-
dled by ward chairmen or committeemen and were a waste of his
valuable time. He maintained his relationship with the citizens and
with political workers through his evening visits to the neighbor-
hoods. When he was not attending a sporting event, he visited one
or more neighborhood functions or made an appearance at a ward-
level political meeting. He and his staff usually worked Saturday
mornings, and he attended to political matters Sunday afternoons.
He reserved Friday evenings for dinner with the family, although he
might attend a public function later in the evening. Saturday evenings,
which he spent with his wife, were considered off limits for political
or government affairs.

Lawrence set a routine upon which his staff and political asso-
ciates could depend as he led the campaign for the success of the
renewal programs; but he seldom dealt with the details of a particu-
lar program. He depended heavily upon a small staff led by the execu-
tive secretary and his department heads to develop the programs de-
signed to accomplish a particular goal. ”He was interested in results,”
lack Robin testified, ”not in how you achieved them. . . . He was will-
ing to accept the judgment of people he considered had expert knowl-
edge and whom he felt were trustworthy. So he never really worried
about the details about who was going to be designer or contractor.
Lawrence did not clutter up his head with more than he needed to
know.” Walter Giesey, who later held the same position as Robin,
added, "He would be very upset when things weren't done right. He'd

Creating a Renaissance: The Environment l> 231

say, ‘do it.’ But sometimes doing it didn't correct the problem that
existed because the system wasn't the correct system. He wasn't con-
cerned with that, he was concerned with the result. . . . He was very
pleased to have someone take care of these details which really didn't
interest him as long as the end result was some kind of better service.”3

He initially depended a great deal upon Robin, who wrote his
speeches and acted as his adviser, political confidant, and intermedi-
ary with the business community. A large man possessed of a quick
wit, a brilliant analytical mind, and considerable charm, Robin be-
came associated with Lawrence during the early days of the Scully
administration. Educated at the University of Pittsburgh, Robin drifted
into newspaper work during the heart of the Depression, then in 1936
became secretary to Mayor Scully. He remained in that position,
gradually gaining experience in administration and accumulating po-
litical and non-political contacts. Robin's work on the early smoke
control laws produced contacts with individuals on the Economy
League and the Allegheny Conference staffs that would later prove
invaluable to Lawrence. ”Lawrence and I became interchangeable in
what we wanted to do and how we wanted to do it. I began to be very
close to him and after '46 I became, with Jimmy Kirk, the closest per-
son to him politically and to some degree, it was a father-son rela-
tionship . . . and that continued for the rest of his life/'4 For the first
few years of the administration, until Robin was given other duties,
the two men were inseparable. Lawrence placed full trust in Robin,
who was sometimes described as the idea man on the administrative
side of the Renaissance. It soon became clear to all who came in con-
tact with the administration that, when Robin spoke, he spoke for
the mayor.

The department heads, excepting Lawrence's closest friend, Iames
Kirk, never had the authority or confidence that Lawrence granted
Robin, but all were given considerable freedom to carry out the duties
of their oflfices as they saw fit. They appear to have been competent,
although not highly talented. Several were college trained, and only
three of the eight received their positions as a reward for longtime
political efforts. They understood their roles in the administration
and, with few exceptions, held the goals of the administration above
their own self interests. The group became a cohesive unit working
toward a singular set of goals.

Mayors can expect loyalty and unity from their own handpicked
administration. Legislative bodies, however, can and frequently do
change or compromise the efforts of the executive branch. Occasion-
ally they discard administrative policy and attempt to substitute their

232 <1 Don’t call me boss

own. Pittsburgh's city council, elected at large since 1911, had always
been proud of its tradition of independence. Councilmen frequently
used their positions to initiate their own agenda or launch politi-
cal careers. One of Cornelius Scully’s chief weaknesses as mayor was
his inability to control the council. Several times during his admin-
istration the council tore his budget to shreds and adopted its own.
Lawrence, by virtue of his power and careful planning, had no such
difficulties.

Shortly before Lawrence became mayor, council president
Thomas Kilgallen, anxious to avoid public criticism over the coun-
cil’s treatment of the Scully budget, instituted the practice of private
sessions where differences were aired and compromises hammered
out. Actual votes, held at public sessions, became pro forma. When
Lawrence became mayor, he continued the practice, meeting each
Monday morning in private with the nine council members. The meet-
ings later became controversial when the press and two disgruntled
councilmen, Ioe McArdle and Eddie Leonard, charged that the mayor
was using the sessions to force his will on the council. There was,
no doubt, some truth to the charge. Lawrence later proudly announced
that he never had to veto an action of the council during his thirteen-
year tenure, and most council votes during the period were unani-
mous. But Lawrence's methods were never as blatant as his critics
charged. Following the practice he had established while secretary
of the Commonwealth, he held closed-door caucuses to discuss pend-
ing issues before they were released for public discussion or a vote.
The mayor, his executive secretary, involved department heads or
other relevant personnel met with the council for discussion that
was usually lively, with considerable give and take. Councilmen felt
free to voice opposition, although they were expected to follow the
same unwritten rule Lawrence had established with the state Demo-
cratic legislators’ caucus: a united front would be presented once a
decision was reached. If Lawrence felt strongly about an issue, he
would argue strenuously for his point of view, but if it was not going
to prevail, he would compromise or withdraw the issue temporarily.5
On legislation of lesser importance, the department head would ex-
plain and defend the proposal, and Lawrence accepted the will of the
majority.

Of course, the party boss held an unseen but heavy weapon over
the heads of council members. Those who consistently opposed his
program were almost without exception dropped in a subsequent elec-
tion. The mayor's willingness to purge rebellious councilmen served
as an important reminder of the actual source of power in the admin-

Creating a Renaissance: The Environment [> 233

istration. Few dared challenge the chief executive. But according to
one councilman, while it was true that Lawrence had great power,
he seldom had to wield it. ”Our political philosophies were so simi-
lar. We were all New Dealers/'6 The common philosophy, of course,
is quite understandable since Lawrence and the small Democratic
executive committee selected council candidates. The system worked
so well that, by the end of his first tenn in oflcice, Lawrence seldom
attended the Monday caucuses but turned the discussion over to Robin
and, later, Giesey.

Lawrence's hold over council members resulted from a combina-
tion of their acceptance of him as the leader whose wisdom they sel-
dom questioned, his power to withold party support in subsequent
elections, and a similarity of views-—a combination that produced
a unity of action seldom seen in Pittsburgh. People from the private
sector interested in city redevelopment knew that when Robin or Gie-
sey spoke, they spoke for Lawrence, and that when Lawrence agreed
to a program, he spoke for the council. It might offer some resistance,
but it would not oppose him.

V

By mid 1946 a public-private sector relationship began to form
among several individuals and organizations. Wallace Richards, the
flamboyant, impatient dreamer often known as the visionary of the
Renaissance, began his career in Indianapolis as a newspaper reporter,
and after several years he became executive secretary of the federal
model community of Greenbelt, Maryland. In 1937 he came to Pitts-
burgh to direct the Pittsburgh Regional Planning Association and soon
became associated with Richard King Mellon, probably through Mel-
lon’s aide, Arthur Van Buskirk. Richards impressed Mellon with his
visions of Pittsburgh, and it was likely he who persuaded Mellon to
support the founding of the Allegheny Conference in 1943. Two years
later Lawrence and Richards met and quickly developed a mutual ad-
miration. Richards marveled at Lawrence's ability to get things done,
while Lawrence stood almost in awe of Richards’s visions.

The perfect complement to the dreams of Richards was the ex-
tensive technical knowledge of Park Martin, who became director
of the Allegheny Conference. Trained as a civil engineer, Martin
worked for ten years as chief engineer and director of the Allegheny
County Plarming Commission. A Republican who once ran for a seat
on the county commission, he developed a strong relationship with
John Kane and through him met Lawrence. It was Martin who devel-
oped the first extensive county improvement plan. He sat on the board

234 <1 Don't call me boss

of the Allegheny Conference's predecessor and in 194 5, at the sugges-
tion of Richards, was appointed executive directore of the conference.

Leslie Reese, head of the western branch of the Pennsylvania Econ-
omy League, played a lesser but significant role in the city's urban
renewal. A huge man, Reese attracted attention by his very appear-
ance. He was an expert on finances and was respected by nearly every-
one who met him. In addition to providing the financial services of
the Pennsylvania Economy League, Reese often acted as the go-
between when disagreements threatened a project. Like Martin and
Richards, he had contacts in both the public and private sectors-
in the latter because the league depended upon a number of the city's
corporate heads for its funding. Reese met Robin during the early years
of the Scully administration when the league helped the city develop
its first armual budget. Although Lawrence never liked Reese person-
ally, his work with the city and county governments built a strong
reservoir of trust on the part of the public officials. When his orga-
nization became a key research group for the Allegheny Conference,
Reese began to work for both the government and the conference.

Reese, Martin, Richards, and several other technical experts such
as Fred Bigger, head of city planning, Ralph Griswold, a landscape
architect, and the conference attorney, Theodore Hazlett, along with
Robin, became the principal links between the public and private sec-
tors. Most had had experience on both sides of the fence and knew
important people from both worlds. In addition to interacting profes-
sionally, they were of a similar age and background, they liked and
respected one another, and a number socialized together. ”Some nights
we would start off by playing pingpong,” Ted Hazlett related, ”and
then end up going into the problems [of the city] ; or we'd do a lot
of drinking. . . these were nice parties with a lot of fun. We'd go
up to Wa1ly’s [Richards] house, he always had a lot of cheeses and
things like that which is common today but wasn't common then.
Then we'd just sit around and talk about what was the immediate
problem and what we would do about it, whom we had to see in order
to get help. . . . It was just a bunch of guys who got together, who had
dedication to the city, who had some imagination!”

Hazlett’s View of ”a bunch of guys” sitting around planning the
future of the city is probably overly romantic. Personality conflicts
and occasional jealousies had to be overcome. Martin, for example,
hinted that not all members of the group were pleased that Richards
received most of the credit as the creative genius of the Renaissance.
”Don’t misunderstand me. I think Wallace had his place and he did
his job. He was largely overrated in a lot of respects. He rode on a

Creating a Renaissance: The Environment l> 235

lot of people's shoulders, and one of them was mine. . . . We put on a
great story of Pittsburgh by picture in the museum. Wallace at the
time was given credit for that. It wasn't his idea at all ; it was mine. . . .
That's what I mean. He was the type of man who could take an idea
and follow it through, but at times he was off into the wild blue yon-
der and it was me who had to pull him back to earth. But people be-
lieved he was quite a boy and he was in some respects. He was a far
better salesman than I could ever hope to be”3 In spite of his feelings,
Martin insisted that he and Richards never ”had a cross word with
one another.” Rebuilding the city, Martin, Hazlett, Richards, and
Robin all emphasized, was a such a powerful and exciting goal that
it enabled them to surmount personal differences.

Pittsburgh's mid-war crisis prompted a civic consciousness among
the business elite. They, in turn, attracted a remarkable group of tech-
nical experts and created organizations or used existing ones as the
foundation for redevelopment. The city administration, at the same
time, followed a parallel course. The technocrats interacted with the
administration and in time formed a kind of interlocking directorate
that enabled the public and private sectors to work in harmony toward
a common set of goals. The formula for success was nearly complete.
One crucial ingredient remained absent.

David L. Lawrence and Richard King Mellon were so powerful
in their respective fields that resistance on the part of either could
destroy the best planning. The business community could not act
without the city's power to condemn land, build roads, revise zon-
ing, and so forth. Furthermore, without smoke control, solely the ad-
ministration’s domain, urban redevelopment would be futile. But the
city could not act without the support of the business community,
which would finance most of the redevelopment and maintain the
businesses and corporations vital to the welfare of the city. R. K.
Mellon alone, for example, was ”largely responsible for getting such
companies as Pittsburgh Plate Glass, Westinghouse Electric Corpora-
tion, Westinghouse Air Brake, and the other companies to sign twenty
year leases [in the redevelopment area] even before the plans were
completed/'9 Redevelopment was not possible without the coopera-
tion of Lawrence and Mellon.

Richard King Mellon was to the corporate community what Law-
rence was to western Pennsylvania politics. He presided over a vast
empire of wealth. Mellon holdings included substantial investment
in industrial, transportation, and utility companies and large blocks
of valuable real estate throughout the eastern United States. The
major Mellon holdings—in excess of $3 billion in assets—were con-

236 <1 Don’t call me boss

centrated in western Pennsylvania. They included controlling inter-
est in Gulf Oil, the Koppers Company, Pittsburgh Consolidation Coal
Company, ALCOA, and Mellon National Bank and Trust Company.
Nearly every other corporation in Pittsburgh had substantial busi-
ness dealings with the Mellon interests. A liaison between Mellon
and Lawrence would almost guarantee the success of any potential
renewal plan.

Mellon, however, unlike his uncle Andrew and his cousin Wil-
liam Larimer, originally showed little interest in politics, civic af-
fairs, or even the financial world. When he was seventeen years old
his father informed him that he had put fifty thousand dollars in a
checking account that the boy might use to engage in whatever busi-
ness suited his fancy. He left the money untouched. ”Dick was uni-
versally agreeable. Little seemed worth extending himself for. . . .
Blandness required little energy.” A poor student, he loved horses, the
outdoors, and wild game hunting. His greatest satisfactions during
his early adulthood came from fox hunts, the Rolling Rock steeple-
chase races, and game trips to the Yukon with his wife, Constance,
to kill or capture animals. He provided many live specimens to the
Pittsburgh Zoo and stuffed animals to the museum. He was at his
happiest on horseback or behind the barrel of a large game weapon.
”Like most thoroughbreds, he is sensitive, nervous, and high—strung,
although he tries to keep such qualities hidden. He also attempts to
cover up a large and generous heart, but in this he is not so success-
ful.” A shy man, he avoided publicity and had few friends or trusted
confidants. When World War II broke out, he quickly volunteered and
received a major’s commission in the army. In 1943, at Governor
Martin's request, he was made director of the Pennsylvania Selective
Service System in Harrisburg. ”These years of service were perhaps
the happiest of R. K.’s life. He had the chance to display his salient
abilities—picking men, smoothing over difficulties——without the
strain of all but unlimited responsibilities. He loved the crispness, the
ritual, the pomp and ceremonial. He made full Colonel—gratifying
too, not bad at all for somebody who busted out of Princeton. No-
body finagled that.” Mellon eventually attained the rank of general. 1°

It was during Mellon’s army tour of duty that Wallace Richards
persuaded him to turn his attention toward rebuilding the city his
father, Richard Beatty, loved. ”Father revered Pittsburgh,” Mellon
told a reporter at his father's funeral in 1933. ”Always he held up Pitts-
burgh to me as one of the world's greatest cities.” Although not evi-
dent until the mid I94OS, it was a passion he inherited. ”If you ever
needed to persuade him to do something [in Pittsburgh], you could

Creating a Renaissance: The Environment l> 237

point to his father having done the same kind of thing, [and] this al-
ways carried the day/'11

When Mellon returned to Pittsburgh after the war, Richards, Van
Buskirk, and Adolph Schmidt decided to get him together with the
new mayor, David Lawrence. It was Arthur Van Buskirk who set up
the meeting. ”The generous offer,” Van Buskirk advised Mellon,
”would be for you to leave your office and go over to visit the mayor.”
Mellon initially balked at the suggestion but eventually relented after
much persuasion. The pretext his aides used was the offer of a gift
of 13.5 acres of family-owned land east of the city to be developed as
a public park and recreation center. Mellon went over to city hall
to inform Lawrence of the gift and enlist his support in developing
the area. ”My God!” Schmidt exclaimed even thirty years later. ”He
didn't even take the car. He walked over with a couple of people and
saw Lawrence. It was the first time they ever met. Lawrence was
duly embarrassed by this but . . . said there was no problem what-
ever as far as the park was concerned. . . . Then on another occasion
Lawrence did the same thing. . . . It broke the ice/'12

One can only speculate what went through Lawrence's mind when
he saw the head of the family he had fought against for so long walk
into his office. Few more incongruous meetings had perhaps ever
taken place. The multimillionaire, blue-blood, Presbyterian Repub-
lican stood face to face with the Roman Catholic, Democratic son
of an unskilled laborer. The two men met in private on both occa-
sions but seldom saw each other under similar circumstances after
that. They talked on the phone at infrequent intervals and met at
formal gatherings. Nor did they become social acquaintances. But they
agreed, perhaps without stating as much, to work together to rebuild
the city. Their understanding launched one of the most sucessful
urban redevelopment projects ever undertaken.

V

A formal protocol for action never existed among the groups in-
terested in rebuilding the city. Projects were launched sometimes by
the city, often by the Allegheny Conference, and occasionally by in-
dividuals. Gradually, however, one unwritten rule came to be ob-
served by all those in the private sector. As work progressed and it
became clear that Lawrence was probably an irreplaceable asset, all
favorable publicity was carefully shifted in the direction of the mayor.
”I’m conscious that I don't have to be elected to anything,” Park Mar-
tin explained in 19 5 5. ”But the man who is to put these policies into
effect . . . has to be elected again, and we've been very careful not to

238 <1 Don't call me boss

do what I call ‘front-run’ the public official. If we're successful and
the public official puts the program through, we're going to get suffi-
cient credit as I think has been proven over these years. As long as
the public officials are producing what you want, let them get the
credit and you'll get enough for yourself.” The Allegheny Conference
on Community Development adhered strictly to this policy during
the first decade of its existence, and its officials made a point of giv-
ing credit to the Democratic city and county organizations and to
the Republican state administration. At the same time they refrained
from campaigning for any one person by avoiding mentioning names. 13
Lawrence accepted and enjoyed the public credit and kept his part
of the bargain. Recognizing the importance of the assistance provided
by the conference, he was careful to avoid any suspicion that poli-
tics played any role in the redevelopment process. City agencies in-
volved were free to hire employees without adhering to the patron-
age system. Equally important, the numerous construction projects
remained free of kickback and other scandals throughout the rede-
velopment period.

Lawrence also interceded with the secretary of the treasury,
Iohn W. Snyder, when the conference was informed it had lost its
tax-exempt status as a result of its lobbying on behalf of the Pitts-
burgh renewal legislation. Lawrence arranged an appointment with
the secretary, and he, Van Buskirk, and Martin went to Washington.
At their meeting with Snyder, they ”presented him with the work
of the conference, what it had already done, what it was planning
to do and the lift that the community was getting.”14 Secretary Sny-
der then called the general counsel of the Bureau of the Internal Reve-
nue and ordered the ruling reversed. The conference received confir-
mation within a week.

It was agreed that renewal could not take place without flood and
smoke control. Enabling legislation had already been passed in both
cases, but the war had interrupted execution. Implementing the two
programs became the first item of business of the mayor and his fel-
low proponents of urban renewal.

The economy-minded U.S. Congress threatened the entire flood
control program when it omitted the crucial Conemaugh Dam from
its 1946 appropriations. Lawrence and the Chamber of Commerce re-
sponded immediately. On IO April—fortunately the first episode of
the Duquesne Light strike had been settled by this time——the mayor
and a delegation representing the chamber went to Capitol Hill. Dr.
Iames Greene, executive vice-president of the Chamber of Commerce,

Creating a Renaissance: The Environment l> 239

testified before the House Flood Control Committee. Armed with the
report from the New York Econometric Institute that identified floods
as one of the main reasons why Pittsburgh had failed to attract new
industries, Greene outlined a plan whereby Congress could defer the
cost of the entire system by ”completing the Conemaugh [Dam] first,
then starting work on the other reservoirs in the system.” Republi-
can members of the Chamber of Commerce lobbied GOP represen-
tatives from Pennsylvania, and Lawrence visited the offices of several
important Democratic legislators on the committee. He also met with
President Truman, who gave his support. Congress responded to the
appeal by appropriating enough funds for the start of preliminary work
on the dam, including relocation of railroad tracks, pipelines, and
electric lines.15

During the next several years, Lawrence continued to work with
the chamber to apply pressure to Congress to carry out the flood con-
trol program. From 1947 through 1949 he made at least four trips to
Washington to use his personal brand of persuasion on Democratic
members of Congress, on the members of the Flood Control Com-
mittee, and on President Truman. In an attempt to broaden the focus
of the issue, he also introduced a resolution at the annual meeting
of the U.S. Conference of Mayors urging that Congress continue its
appropriations for flood control. The measure passed unanimously.
As before, he also accompanied delegations representing the Cham-
ber of Commerce and other prominent Pittsburgh groups in their
lobbying eflorts and testimony before committees. The effort became
a broad bipartisan one with the participation of Republican and Demo-
cratic representatives and both senators.“

The lengthy campaign succeeded. Congress appropriated funds
during the 1948 and 1949 sessions, and work began on the dam in May
1949. There were almost immediate dividends: several months later,
the Equitable Life Assurance Society agreed to terms to redevelop the
Gateway Center business area adjacent to Point Park. The H. I. Heinz
Corporation, located on the Allegheny River, and Iones and Laughlin
Steel, on the Monongahela River, also armounced multimillion-dollar
expansion programs. By September I9 53, eight of nine reservoirs ap-
proved in 1936 were complete and in operation.”

The actual funding and implementation of the Pittsburgh flood
control system were beyond the control of Lawrence and the Cham-
ber of Commerce. An unsympathetic Congress had shown its inten-
tion to turn its attention elsewhere. The bipartisan efforts of the
Democratic mayor and the Republican chamber, however, paid off.

1 8 8 9 —l 91 9
Growing Up:
An Education in Politics

Powerful economic and social divisions gripped Pittsburgh during
the last decade of the nineteenth century. Industrialization and the
development of modern capitalism, technological change and the de-
personalization of the worker contributed to growing labor-manage-
ment conflicts. Social class separation and ethnic rivalries further
divided the population, while Catholic-Protestant hostilities were
never far from the surface. Anti-Catholic, antilabor, and nativist sen-
timents dominated the nation that preached freedom for all. Caught
in the midst of these struggles, David Leo Lawrence, an Irish-Catholic
son of an unskilled laborer, received lasting lessons in American so-
cial organization. Religion, ethnicity, the labor movement, and a sharp
awareness of social class all became a pervasive part of his youth and
later political career.

Between 188 5 and 1914, Pittsburgh's industrial production led the
American transition into a modern society. Andrew Carnegie, George
Westinghouse, B. F. Iones, and a score of others, harnessing new in-
dustrial technology, made the city America's center of capital goods
manufacturing. Railroad cars, air brakes, river barges, glass products,
and iron and steel goods of all kinds poured from their factories. By
1900 the area produced more than half of the nation's coking coal,
open-hearth ingots and castings, crucible and structural steel as well
as substantial amounts of window glass and steel rails}

Waste materials from these factories, at the same time, polluted
the air, poisoned the streams, and destroyed much of the land. ”Pitts-
burgh is not a beautiful city,” one foreign visitor observed.

She is substantially and compactly built, and contains some
handsome edifices ; but she lacks the architectural magnificence

240 < Don’t call me boss

The city has been struck with several small nuisance floods since
the catastrophe of 1936, but the flood control system has prevented
a recurrence of the St. Patrick's Day disaster.

Also crucial to the redevelopment of the city was passage by the
state legislature of a series of bills known collectively as the Pitts-
burgh Package. Drafted primarily by Ted Hazlett and the city so-
licitor, Anne X. Alpem, the bills received the strong support of the
Pennsylvania Economy League and the Pittsburgh Regional Plarming
Association. They concerned such diverse matters as county refuse
disposal; creation of a city parking authority; creation of a city de-
partment of parks and recreation; extension of county smoke control
laws to railroads; establishment of a county transit and traffic study
commission; completion of the Penn-Lincoln Parkway, a vital link
into the city; and broadening of the city's tax base to include sources
other than real estate.” Hazlett and Alpem presented the completed
bills to Lawrence during the first week of 1947. The mayor, who had
been kept informed of their general contents by Alpem, endorsed
them immediately.

To ensure bipartisan support for the legislation, the conference
sponsored three meetings in February and March at the William Penn
Hotel to explain the package. Leading city, county, and state officials
from both sides of the political aisle attended. The Democrats, as
Lawrence had promised, offered enthusiastic support for the pack-
age, while Republican legislators dragged their feet. The Republican
county chainnan, Iames Malone, and the Senate floor leader, Iohn
Walker, both raised objections to various provisions of the bills. One
Republican senator, however, probably got to the heart of the mat-
ter. ”If we support these bills and these things happen, the mayor
will get all the credit.” He accurately surmised that the Republicans
were helpless. Lawrence reached the same conclusion.

Now, speaking to you fellows as a politician, I'll be perfectly
happy if you don't go along with this. But speaking as Mayor of
Pittsburgh, I plead with you to support it. Because its going to
mean a lot to everybody around here, Democrats and Republi-
cans alike, if we can recapture a lot of the old-time zip that
Pittsburgh had. But as a politician, if you fellows oppose it
that’d be grist for our mill. . . . We're going to pass these bills
anyway, and I have the word of the Governor [Republican
James Duff] he's going to sign it. . . . So you put yourself in just
the position we want you to be. But as Mayor, I urge and plead

Creating a Renaissance: The Environment [> 241

with you for your own sake and for your family . . . [so] that we
can do something for the city.”

The mayor's plea, not surprisingly, failed to move the members
of the Republican caucus, but pressure applied by Martin, Richards,
and Hazlett of the Allegheny Conference, and Leslie Reese of the Penn-
sylvania Economy League convinced the delegation that united sup-
port would bring credit to both parties. There was considerable bicker-
ing, but when Malone and Walker agreed to go along, the remaining
Republican participants fell into line. A bipartisan Allegheny County
delegation presented a united front in the state legislature. It was de-
cided to present eight of the bills together as a package to speed pas-
sage. Two that applied to the city only—revising the city's taxing
powers and creating a city department of parks and recreation-
received support but were to be introduced separately.

The third meeting, a formal dinner, presented a picture of har-
mony to the invited press. Republican and Democratic leaders pledged
their ”solid” support and lavished credit on the Allegheny Conference
and the other private agencies that developed the legislative pack-
age. Lawrence concluded the evening by thanking Malone for his
”magnanimous offer of support.” While he may have been somewhat
effusive in his praise, he demonstrated the basis of his political strat-
egy. ”This is a Pittsburgh project, not a Democratic or Republican
project. There is no such thing as a Democratic bridge or a Repub-
lican highway. It is a civic duty and patriotic duty. We don't want
any political advantage, but a full measure of credit to everyone who
helps put it through/'20

The battle to pass the Pittsburgh Package perhaps best illustrates
the cooperative spirit of the public and private sectors in the redevelop-
ment process. The bills were introduced in the legislature over both
Republican and Democratic signatures on 3 March 1947, amidst con-
siderable opposition. For example, the Allegheny County League of
Boroughs, Townships, and Third Class Cities, which perceived threats
to local autonomy, objected.“ Lawrence, State Senator Joe Barr, and
County Commissioner Kane met almost weekly with the Democratic
House and Senate caucuses to muster support for the program. Gover-
nor Iames Duff, a westem Pennsylvanian, and Senator Walker applied
equal pressure on the Republican side. Lawrence, in return, agreed
to provide enough Democratic votes to ensure passage of a Duff-
Republican tax program.

The Allegheny Conference, meanwhile, supplied a delegation to

242 <l Don't call me boss

lobby legislators sensitive to business pressure. Several members spent
three days per week during the six-month 1947 legislative session in
Harrisburg. Attempting to act as individuals to maintain their tax-
exempt status, they arranged meetings with Republican and Demo-
cratic legislators and wrote to them explaining various parts of the
bills and urging support. When problems developed over a county-
wide smoke control bill, the delegation supplied 48,ooo signatures
gathered earlier among Allegheny County voters supporting it. Later,
when the same bill was introduced by Republican Senator Robert
Fleming, Senator Rufus Flyrm, assistant general manager of the Penn-
sylvania Railroad, rose to state that his company opposed the bill.
”Wallace Richards and I went directly to the telephone,” Park Martin
recalled. ”Wallace talked directly to Mr. [Richard K.] Mellon in Pitts-
burgh. . . . Mr. Mellon got hold of the president of the Pennsylvania
Railroad, who was in Florida, and told him in no uncertain terms the
railroad had to change its position. [Mellon was a director of the Penn-
sylvania Railroad.] I understand that Mr. Ben Fairless [U.S. Steel presi-
dent] did the same thing; also several other big shippers. As one man
said, ‘You know, we can find other railroads. . . .’ Almost overnight
the opposition evaporated and the bill passed.”-"--"-

The conference delegation intervened directly on another bill, the
one to permit the city to establish a parking authority. Strong opposi-
tion by parking lot and building owners led to the bill's defeat in the
House on the initial vote. ”I’ll never forget the night of May 5 [1947],”
said Ted Hazlett.

The vote was 71 for and 113 against. That night Wallace Rich-
ards and Bob Bassett and I were sharing a room and . . . Bob Bas-
sett got the chills , shaking, and Wally had a fever. I was at
least healthy . . . but I was sleeping on a cot and was constantly
falling off all night. The bill was resurrected and passed after a
great deal of phoning and various pressures were put on. We
had begun to learn a little bit about how to operate in Harris-
burg by then. . . . You played poker with them [state legislators]
and you got to know them by their first names, and maybe
there was a little bit of understanding. . . . You also found out
that most of the large corporations of this city had very influen-
tial lobbyists and there were blocks of votes where their influ-
ence was very great. So you would line up these men by mak-
ing sure their bosses back in Pittsburgh had placed the proper
phone call to them to say they ought to be in favor of this Pitts-
burgh Package. In one case, strangely enough, we got a vote

Creating a Renaissance: The Environment [> 243

because we knew the woman whom one of the members was
sleeping with and we were able to get her to sort of talk the bill
up while they were enjoying themselves. . . . No stone was left
unturned and we finally did get that bill passed on May 14 by a
vote of 186 in favor and 4 against.”

The combined pressure applied by both parties and by the public
and private sectors — and apparently in the bedroom—had the expected
effect. It gave the strongest possible signal that a united effort could
bring about important change. Eight of the bills were passed during
the 1947 legislative session. A separate bill permitting insurance com-
panies to invest in urban renewal areas received the same type of sup-
port and also became law.

Besides the flood control program and a partially developed legis-
lative package, Lawrence also inherited a state-sponsored Point Park
project when he assumed office in Ianuary 1946. Two weeks after Gov-
ernor Martin’s announcement in October 194 5 of the project, Richard
King Mellon, chairman of the Pittsburgh Regional Planning Associa-
tion, hosted a dinner meeting at the Duquesne Club at which Wallace
Richards presented a design for the park. Lawrence and Kane, both
of whom attended the meeting, agreed to sit on the Point Park Steer-
ing Committee. Two weeks after his inauguration, Lawrence made
good on his promise to cooperate by submitting to the city council
a recommendation that a minimum of thirty-six acres be acquired
for the park. The recommendation was particularly important in that
it committed the city to contribute several acres it owned and the
historic Exposition Hall, now a warehouse, to the Point Park Com-
mission. Lawrence ordered an existing Mayor's Point Park Commis-
sion to abandon its negotiations with the National Park Service to
create a historic monument at the site. He instructed the city plan-
ning commission to join with state traffic engineers to create a basic
traffic design for the area and to draw up plans to vacate several city
streets. Five other city departments and two county departments were
later assigned to participate in the plarming and development process.
Ralph Griswold, chief landscape architect for the project, recalled that
Lawrence's action eliminated any further opposition. ”Quick to grasp
the significance of this new co-operative spirit, all previous conflict-
ing interests rallied to assist the Commonwealth. Point State Park
became a popular nonpartisan project/'24 Having successfully launched
the plan, the Pittsburgh Regional Planning Association turned its im-
plementation over to the Allegheny Conference in the first of many
instances of interaction among the various private redevelopment or-

244 <1 Don't call me boss

ganizations. A Point Park Committee, chaired by Van Buskirk and
Edgar I. Kaufmann, president of the department store, collaborated
with the state Department of Forests and Waters to oversee the project.

Planning, design, and land acquisition took nearly four years.
Lawrence demanded occasional progress reports and regularly attended
the Point Park Steering Committee meetings, but he generally played
a minor role in the ongoing development of the project. He partici-
pated in the ground breaking ceremony on 18 May 1950. His daughter,
son, and grandson represented him at the park's dedication on 30 Au-
gust 1974, nearly eight years after his death.

Installation of a flood control system and a state park, while time
consuming, were relatively easy compared with the efforts to rid the
city's sky of noxious fumes and smoke. The city ordinances of 1941
established a three-stage timetable for the elimination of smoke-
producing fuel or equipment. Stages one and two, directed primarily
against commericial establishments, industries, and railroads, were
implemented within sixteen months of the passage of the ordinance,
but enforcement remained lax throughout the war. Production of war
materials took precedence over pollution control, and the Pittsburgh
sky grew darker. All sides agreed that strict enforcement would begin
immediately after the war. Implementation of the third stage, aimed
at domestic use, was postponed until after the war.

With the fighting in Europe and the Pacific subsiding in 194 5, M.
Iay Ream, president of the United Smoke Council, sounded out both
mayoral candidates, Lawrence and Waddell, about their positions on
the issue. Waddell replied that, if elected, he would appoint a ”mayor’s
blue-ribbon” panel to study the question of implementation. Lawrence,
on the other hand, indicated that he intended to act immediately to
enforce the ordinances already passed. His campaign staff, moreover,
unofficially adopted as its own the slogan of the United Smoke Coun-
cil, ”Smoke Must Go!” Lawrence reiterated his commitment in his
first inaugural address. ”I am convinced that our people want to clean
up the air. . . . There is no other single thing which will so dramati-
cally improve the appearance, the health, the pride, the spirit of the
city/'25 Several days later, after meeting with members of city coun-
cil to ensure their support, Lawrence announced the implementation
of the ordinances effective October 1946. The date applied to all three
groups: commercial establishments and industry, railroads, and do-
mestic users.

Lawrence received praise for what members of the Allegheny Con-
ference called a politically courageous step, but letters to the editors
of the local newspapers both praised and condemned him. One called

Creating a Renaissance: The Environment l> 245

him the ”savior of Pittsburgh,” while another said, ”If our mayor thinks
so much of St. Louis [he had praised St. Louis’s success in controlling
air pollution], I sure wish he would move there and see if he could
be its mayor.” The Western Pennsylvania Conference on Air Pollu-
tion, representing the bituminous coal producers, and many residents
besieged Lawrence's office with letters and phone calls. He agreed to
meet with representatives of the coal producers’ organization, who
loudly demanded that he postpone implementation for a year because
they lacked the necessary equipment and the supply of low—volatility
coal was insufficient. They also demanded that the public hearings
be canceled. After the intervention of the Allegheny Conference, the
United Smoke Council, and the Chamber of Commerce, Lawrence
eventually agreed privately to a postponement in return for a guar-
antee of willing compliance from the producers. But he insisted that
the public hearings proceed as plarmed.26 He had received consider-
able favorable publicity for his strong stand against the coal produc-
ers’ organization and was unwilling to be seen to back down at this
late date.

An overflow crowd filled the council hearing room during the
hearings. Lawrence, as he had done during his days as secretary of
the Commonwealth, sat in a conspicuous spot on the right side of
the chamber, but this time he was not attempting to influence legis-
lation. The council president, Thomas Kilgallen, tried to set the tone
with his opening remarks. ”We are not here today to discuss the merits
of our smoke ordinance. This Council is committed to it. For better
or worse we are going to enforce this smoke ordinance.” When he was
interrupted by a mixture of boos and applause, Kilgallen responded,
”Now look, ladies and gentleman, here are nine men who have been
in council for a long time. We are not affected one whit by applause.
It just wastes time.”27

Representatives of several organizations, including the League of
Women Voters and the Civic Club of Allegheny County, spoke in
favor of immediate enforcement. The League president, Mrs. I. 0.
Miller, noted that ”if men had to stay home and keep house, the or-
dinance would go into effect sooner.” But it soon became clear that
there was overwhelming support for a one-year postponement of the
restrictions on domestic users. The coal producers’ organization gained
public support for the postponement when representatives made clear
that they favored enforcement for all consumers except private homes.
Its chairman, Walter Schulten, promised support for full enforcement
if the council would accept the one-year postponement, after which
smokeless stoves should be available at prices ranging from $50 to

246 < Don’t call me boss

$Ioo. Speakers for the United Mine Workers, an important group, also
agreed to support the plan in return for the proposed postponement.

Requests for delay by the producers’ organization and the mine
workers were, of course, expected. Any agreement to postpone im-
plementation as a result of their arguments would be viewed as a sell-
out by the press and perhaps the public. But the private agreement
worked out by Lawrence and the members of the Allegheny Confer-
ence provided the needed public support for the postponement. Rep-
resentatives of the Allegheny Conference, the United Smoke Coun-
cil, and the Chamber of Commerce all read statements favoring the
new date. All three said they accepted the statements of the coal pro-
ducers and stove makers that neither the low-volatile coal nor the
equipment would be ready by the earlier date. Therefore, Martin
stated, ”the Conference Executive Committee, believing that an ef-
fective solution of this problem requires the full cooperation of all
interests involved—producers, retailers, consumers, and interested
civic groups —agrees to revise its recommendation for an effective date
and adopted the date of October 1, I947.’’ The administration could
save face and gain the willing compliance of the coal producers. Kil-
gallen asked several times, following the testimony, ”Is there any-
body who will appear before council and tell us that there is coal
available now and there are smokeless stoves available now?” When
no one came forward, he adjourned the hearing and informed the au-
dience that a decision would be made shortly.“

During the next week Lawrence met several times with Park Mar-
tin and Councilman A. L. Wolk, chairman of the Health and Sanita-
tion Committee and ”father” of the 1941 ordinance, to work out a com-
promise. On 23 April the council voted to place the commercial users
under regulation on I October 1946. Residential smoke control would
become effective one year later.

Implementation took place on schedule, and the coal producers
prediction of shortages, though a gross overestimate, proved correct.
Supplies of smokeless fuels were inadequate, and shortages grew worse
during Ianuary and February 1948, when a cold wave depleted sup-
plies of natural gas. Distributors of smokeless coal raised the price
of their precious commodity approximately 25 percent over the cost
of bituminous coal. Unscrupulous suppliers peddled inferior grades to
consumers. Complaints about the ordinance poured into the mayor's
ofl-ice, city council, and radio stations. City Councilmen Ioseph Mc-
Ardle and Edward Leonard tried to have the ordinance suspended,
and Iohn Walker attempted to introduce a ”smoke control ripper” in
the State House of Representatives. Letters of protest to the editors

Creating a Renaissance: The Environment l> 247

of Pittsburgh newspapers became so numerous that the Press took
the unusual action of announcing that ”space limitations and the repe-
titiousness of complaints makes it necessary to publish the pertinent
extracts of each letter.” Letters no longer protested that smoke and
prosperity were synonymous. Instead they complained about the qual-
ity of smokeless coal, the cost of fuel, and the inability of residents
to heat their homes.”

The administration sought to muffle criticism by enforcing the
law at the sources of supply rather than in the homes of users. Truck-
ers hauling coal were licensed, and those caught hauling illegal bitu-
minuous coal were fined. Dealers selling it were likewise subject to
fines. The Bureau of Smoke Control’s inspectors ”deliberately went
real easy on the smoke in poor neighborhoods and thought that they
would get rid of that by eliminating the trucking of illegal fuel rather
than by moving against poor Mrs. Murphy.”3°

In spite of the many problems during the winter of 1947-48, Pitts-
burgh received 39 percent more sunshine than in the previous year,
and the hours of ”moderate” and ”heavy” smoke decreased by approxi-
mately 50 percent. A public opinion poll taken the following sum-
mer reflected the improved conditions. A majority of Pittsburghers,
regardless of income, found conditions ”better than the previous year.”
Pittsburgh's sky continued to clear each year, particularly after Alle-
gheny County passed its own comprehensive smoke control ordi-
nance. By 19 54 ”heavy” smoke declined by 98.7 percent and ”moderate”
smoke by 85.8 percent from the 1946 levels.“

Lawrence's efforts in the smoke control battle, following on the
heels of the Duquesne Light strike, demonstrated once again that,
when he felt he was right, he could be firm on an issue regardless
of its political consequences. The ordinance fell hardest on poor fami-
lies, an important source of Democratic support. Convinced, how-
ever, that smoke control held the key to the city's rapidly developing
renewal plans, he refused to be deterred. The decision to go ahead
was a crucial factor in persuading Equitable Life to proceed with its
planned investment in the central business district. In retrospect, Iack
Robin noted, ”Perhaps if we had waited a year, it could have been
done smoothly and with less inconvenience and cost and hardship
to some people . . . but again, it cemented the relationship between
Lawrence and the civic group [the Allegheny Conference]/'32

V

Lawrence’s position improved Pittsburgh’s air, strengthened his
relationship with the business community, and encouraged invest-

248 <1 Don’t call me boss

ment. It also gave rise to a political opponent who presented an im-
mediate and strong threat to his career as mayor.

Edward I. ”Eddie” Leonard, an unpolished, tough-talking man of
limited ability, grew up in East Liberty. He became active in union
politics, was named business representative of Plasterers’ Local 31,
and in 1930 was elected secretary of the Building Trades Council, an
amalgamation of the various construction craft unions. He turned
to city politics in 1929, supporting Republican Mayor Charles Kline
for reelection. In 1932 he joined the wave of Republican defectors to
the Roosevelt cause. Lawrence and Leonard met sometime during the
Roosevelt campaign, and Leonard campaigned for Roosevelt and Mc-
Nair in the blue-collar neighborhoods around East Liberty and among
his fellow union members. ”I loved politics, but I didn't want to be
no political hack. I think Lawrence taught me how not to be a politi-
cal hack,” Leonard observed.33 He became friendly with another union
politician, Iohn Kane, at that time head of the Pressmens’ Union, and
with Lawrence's protégé Ioe Barr. Although he liked to view Lawrence
as his mentor, the two were never really close. It is likely that Leon-
ard reminded Lawrence too much of his blue-collar roots.

Leonard continued his political efforts after 1933, working par-
ticularly hard for Kane's campaign for county commissioner in 193 5.
He was rewarded when he was named on Kane's recommendation to
fill the vacant ”labor” seat on the city council in 1938. He retained
his affiliation with the plasterers’ union and the Building Trades
Council.

Leonard's first seven years on the council were uneventful. He
first drew attention to himself three weeks after Lawrence's inaugu-
ration by refusing to attend the mayor's Monday morning meetings.
Leonard's independent streak was unexpected, and Lawrence treated
him much as he had handled State Representative Al Tronzo eleven
years earlier—he generally ignored him. Leonard was probably harm-
less, for he usually joined the majority in open votes in council. As
an enemy, however, he might prove troublesome. Leonard clearly had

the support of Kane, and Lawrence was not willing to create friction '

with the commissioner over such a minor issue. It is likely that Kane
privately enjoyed the small but constant discomfort Leonard caused
Lawrence. Leonard, as the union representative on the council, also
enjoyed the support of organized labor. A battle, particularly since
Lawrence was increasingly showing his independence from labor,
could well prove counterproductive.

Leonard's independence, however, proved to be more than a minor
irritation when he opposed the regulations against home use of bitu-

Creating a Renaissance: The Environment l> 249

minous fuel even after they had been adopted. At nearly every coun-
cil meeting as the deadline approached and then during the shortages
that occurred that winter, he proposed that the domestic controls be
suspended. At one council meeting he spoke for three hours, accusing
dealers of price gouging and passing off illegal coal as smokeless fuel.34

Leonard was becoming a celebrity and enjoying it. The letters to
the editor that deluged the papers during the winter of 1947-48 began
to refer to him as the champion of “Little Ioe,” a term he himself had
used at the beginning of his campaign against the domestic regula-
tions.35 In stating the argument in class terms—the ability of the
wealthy to afford smoke control versus the hardships of the poor-
the letters raised the issue that would follow Lawrence through the
1949 campaign. His new image as a friend of the wealthy caused seri-
ous concern in his political camp.

The smoke control issue died down when the weather turned
wann. While he continued to boycott the Monday meetings, Leonard
remained silent about them. Lawrence, involved in statewide elec-
tion battles and still unwilling to risk a split with Kane, agreed to
accept Leonard when he petitioned for the party's endorsement for
reelection. The councilman’s popularity was obvious when he led the
ticket in November.

Leonard's silence about the Monday meetings and the smoke con-
trol regulations lasted only until the fall of 1948. Even before he won
reelection, he began to attack. “He ran more against Lawrence, that
campaign,” one observer noted, “than against his Republican oppo-
nents.” In the fall, Leonard demonstrated the inferiority of coal sold
by the city's largest company, Consolidation, a Mellon-owned com-
pany, by bringing ten bushels of it, along with his fireplace grate,
into council chambers. Placing the grate on the table, he showed coun-
cil members and the previously alerted press that the small lumps
of coal could not possibly burn on the grate. “They were trying to
rule me out of order. . . . I had two big special lumps. . . . I said, ‘Now
look.”’ He brought them together. “Honest to God they went to dust
all over Wolk, who was sweating and all over McArdle who had a
new suit on. McArdle says, ‘Look what you've done, you'll pay for
my new suit.’ Oh, the newspapers were full of pictures. . . . I had the
shovel in my hand and I waved it and it had a lot of dust on it and
[it] went all over McArdle. He said, ‘You S.O.B. you.’I said, ‘You bet-
ter smile when you say that or I'll bat you in the puss.’ This is in
council.” Eddie Leonard thoroughly enjoyed the attention he was re-
ceiving and continued his taunts against administration policies after
the election, but he clearly had no idea where they were leading.36

4 <l Don’t call me boss

of some of her sister cities; while her suburbs present all that is
unsightly and forbidding in appearance, the original beauties in
nature having been ruthlessly sacrificed to utility. . . .

The hills . . . have been leveled down, cut into, sliced off
and ruthlessly marred and mutilated. . . . Great black coal cars
crawl up and down their sides, and plunge into unsuspected and
mysterious openings. . . . Railroad tracks gridiron the ground
everywhere, debris of all sorts lies in heaps, and is scattered
over the earth, and huts and hovels are perched here and there,
in every available spot. There is no verdure—nothing but mud
and coal, the one yellow, the other black. And on the edge of
the city are the unpicturesque outlines of factories and found-
ries, their tall chimneys belching forth columns of inky black-
ness, which roll and whirl in fantastic shapes, and finally lose
themselves in the general murkiness above?

The prosperity of the factories and the dynamic quality of the
city prompted thousands of laborers to ignore the horrible environ-
mental conditions. They flocked to the mill towns along the rivers
and into the central city, where below-subsistence wages, long hours,
and appallingly dangerous working conditions prevailed. Cost-cutting
manufacturers replaced highly skilled workers with unskilled labor
as quickly as technological advances permitted, and wages fell still
further. To counteract the growing power of the corporations and the
loss of their status, skilled craftsmen formed labor unions, which
promised to defend and assert workers’ rights. Labor and management
joined in an intense struggle for control of the mills. Between 1877
and 1894, Pittsburgh ranked behind only New York and Chicago in
the number of labor disturbances. Companies retaliated by locking
workers out, giving the city the dubious distinction of leading the
nation in the number of lockouts and in wage losses due to lockouts
and strikes.3 The labor movement failed to end the exploitation of
workers, and its near collapse after the 1892 Homestead steel strike
gave a clear indication of the subservient position of labor in the Steel
City. Sharp class divisions continued to be an important factor for
the next forty years.

The development of class-segregated neighborhoods widened the
gulf between rich and poor and between labor and management. The
masters of industry amassed great fortunes and formed a powerful
new social class. They built magnificent homes in the city's suburbs
or, like Andrew Carnegie and Henry Clay Prick, abandoned the re-
gion altogether. Middle- and upper-class communities such as Shady-

250 <1 Don't call me boss

The primary election of 1949 revealed the political costs that Law-
rence paid for his cooperation with the city's business community,
his independent role in the Duquesne Light and other labor disputes,
and his strong stand on smoke control. Leonard's popularity, if one
can judge by his council victory and supporting letters to the paper,
continued to grow, but no one considered him a serious candidate
to challenge the most powerful Democrat the state had known. If Ioe
Gufiey and Charles Margiotti could not succeed, what chance did
Eddie Leonard have?

The first shock of the campaign occurred in May when an AFL
leader armounced that the union had begun efforts to launch a move-
ment to draft Leonard as an alternative to Lawrence in the Demo-
cratic primary in September. It began at a meeting of the Central Labor
Union (CLU) made up of representatives of the AFL locals. The reso-
lution singled out Leonard's fight against smoke control regulations
for family homes and called for enlisting the support of the CIO, Rail-
road Brotherhood, teamsters, United Mine Workers, and other labor
groups. Leonard, flattered, at first appeared uncertain how to respond.
In his first public comments he expressed his gratitude but praised
Lawrence for his efiorts at building the Democratic party. He did not
announce his candidacy for the September primary until mid Iuly.
In the interim, however, he was pressured by the various local presi-
dents to accept the draft. Leonard denied that Iohn Kane had anything
to do with his decision to run but admitted that ”he did nothing to
dissuade me either.” lack Robin suspected that Kane was not entirely
neutral.37

By early Iune, Leonard was apparently over his indecision. He
delivered his first personal attack on Lawrence at a Twelfth Ward
fund-raiser, focusing on the three issues on which the mayor was
most vulnerable. He began by castigating Lawrence for ignoring the
problems of the ”little Ioes” in forcing smoke control down their
throats. He then called into question the mayor's loyalty to organized
labor and his ”sweetheart” arrangement with the financial powers of
Pittsburgh.

Where big city bosses doubled in brass as national committee-
men, the people have retired them from local office. Bosses like
Hague, Kelly and Crump are ex-bosses. Can Pittsburgh be far
behind? When Lawrence set up a labor-management group, he
didn't consult me or councilman Tom Gallagher, both labor
men or CIO men, or County Commissioner Iohn I. Kane. He
chose to ignore all of them and accepted, instead, the labor pro-
gram of his bungling amateurs.

Creating a Renaissance: The Environment l> 251

He has become a valuable servant of the financial and in-
dustrial dynasty that has dominated the economy and political
life of the community for three generations.

He is a prisoner of the royal family of high finance. Under
the guise of cooperation he helped big business capture both
political parties. In secret sessions in their counting houses
they determine the policies of his administration.

A coalition of Daveycrats and conservative Republicans
[has] detoured the Democratic program from its liberal course.38

The attack revived the charges of collusion with the wealthy that
Iohn Huston and other Democrats had often made against Lawrence.
It also put the Lawrence forces on the defensive. Throughout the pri-
mary campaign Lawrence rejected the charge that he was bossed by
big business. ”Everything that we have done has been part of a single
theme—the theme repeated and repeated, that what helps Pittsburgh
helps us all. To that end, I have thrown politics out the window, to
cooperate in complete harmony with every agency and with every
citizen who could contribute to our city.” The Lawrence forces were
aghast three days later when a telegram from Lawrence congratulat-
ing Iohn Dorsey, president of the Central Labor Union, on ”6 3 years
in the labor movement” was read at a union dinner. It was greeted
largely with boos. ”We had a real fight on our hands,” Robin admit-
ted. ”If we hadn't worked in that election we could very well have lost
it. We had to work as if it were the general election—which it was/'39

Orders were issued from Democratic headquarters to party regu-
lars at all levels to work as if their jobs depended upon their success.
They probably did. Lawrence's usual practice of running scared bore
a semblance of reality in this primary. The CIO president, Philip Mur-
ray, pledged to support the Democratic party ”down the line” but ex-
tracted a promise from Lawrence that a CIO representative, Pat Fagan,
would be named to fill a vacancy on the city council. The continuing
CIO-AFL feud probably made the promise urmecessary, for the CIO
was unlikely to support Leonard, the AFL choice —but Lawrence will-
ingly gave it to secure the endorsement. The remainder of the pri-
mary campaign became a race to see which side could line up the
most labor endorsements. Lawrence took the lead early in Septem-
ber, just before the election, when the Railroad Brotherhood, the city
teamsters local, and a rump AFL group organized by Charles Law-
rence announced its support of the mayor.

The seriousness with which the Lawrence forces considered the
Leonard threat was obvious when Lawrence announced that Presi-
dent Truman would appear at the Allegheny County Fair on Labor

252 <1 Don’t call me boss

Day. It is customary in American politics to ask a national politician
to assist in one’s campaign, but seldom during the primary election.
A holiday crowd estimated at more than Ioo,ooo was on hand to
witness the president, Mayor Lawrence, and John Kane riding together
in the motorcade to South Park. Lawrence, sitting on the speaker's
platform, heard Truman praise him as one of the ”greatest Democrats
of our day and a great municipal leader/'40

The election was not as close as Lawrence and his associates had
feared, but he would never have a closer one for mayor. Lawrence's
final vote exceeded Leonard's by 22,633 (75,838 to 53,205), but he ran
behind three of the five organization candidates for the council and
lost seven wards. A neighborhood-by-neighborhood analysis of the
returns shows a partially unexpected pattern. Lawrence won impres-
sive victories in the city's poorest neighborhoods, where Leonard's
”litt1e Ioe” campaign was expected to have its greatest impact. Blue-
collar workers in the Hill District, Lawrenceville, Bloomfield, Soho,
Hazelwood, and the Central North Side all ignored Leonard's appeal
and turned in strong majorities for Lawrence. The challenger won his
own East Liberty ward, but by only 116 votes. Perhaps most surpris-
ing, Leonard's largest victories occurred in four South Side wards-
the Sixteenth, Seventeenth, Eighteenth and Thirty-first ——in the heart
of the CIO-dominated steel district. Both Philip Murray and David
McDonald, president of the United Steel Workers, had given Law-
rence strong endorsements, and the union officials campaigned in his
behalf. Lawrence won the AFL districts he feared losing and lost the
CIO districts he expected to win.

The explanation appears to lie in the type of fuel consumed rather
than in union affiliation. The four South Side (CIO) wards Leonard
won all lagged behind the city average in converting to natural gas.
Iust over one-half of the households had switched compared with
two-thirds in the entire city. The use of natural gas in Leonard's weak-
est wards (the Second, Third, Fifth, Fourteenth, and Twenty-first), in
contrast, exceeded the average by 5 percent or more.“ For residents
still relying upon coal, the enforced use of Disco, or smokeless coal,
represented a major portion of the household budget, and many voted
their pocketbooks rather than following the advice of Murray and
McDonald.

For some, domestic fuel continued to be an issue in the general
election in 1949, but Lawrence's victory demonstrated a much broader
base of support. He won impressive victories in wards inhabited by
the members of the former New Deal coalition—the Third through
the Ninth, the Fifteenth, and the Twenty-first through the Twenty-

Creating a Renaissance: The Environment [> 253

fifth. The combination of loyalty to the Democratic party among the
ethnic and black blue-collar workers in these neighborhoods and the
effective work of Democratic ward chairmen and workers made them
impervious to antiorganization challenges.

Lawrence, however, also showed strength among the white-collar
neighborhoods: Shadyside, Squirrel Hill, Stanton Avenue, and parts
of Oakland. His vote totals exceeded Leonard's by three and four to
one in these districts and signaled his newly won acceptability among
the Democratic business and professional community. The effort to
cooperate with the city’s corporate elite, Leonard's charges of ”collu-
sion” and ”selling out to Mellon interests” notwithstanding, was be-
ginning to have results.

The mayor probably strengthened his position in the business
community when he let it be known that he had rejected a plea by
the Central Labor Union to be given seats on the parking and rede-
velopment authorities as a reward for their support in the general elec-
tion. Detennined to keep the rebuilding process free of politics, he
ofiered it instead a greater voice in the inner circles of the party. The
labor organization and Eddie Leonard, who clearly had nowhere else
to turn, accepted and publicly endorsed Lawrence for reelection. Leon-
ard showed his appreciation by attending the Monday morning coun-
cil caucuses. According to both Lawrence associates and Leonard
himself, no deal was offered in return for his support. Two years
later, however, Lawrence took the unusual course of insisting that
Leonard be renominated by the party to retain his council post. The
champion of ”little Ioe” thanked Lawrence for his support but declined
to run. Shortly thereafter he became an official, later president, of
the International Plasterers’ Union.”-

Lawrence and his aides viewed his victory over Leonard as a sig-
nal from the voters to continue to rebuild the city even if the meth-
ods were sometimes painful. In Lawrence's words, ”the dramatic pri-
mary was the final climax for smoke control. . . . Since that time
smoke control has had no political challenge. . . . Statistics and the
shirt collar both proved that Pittsburgh had become as clean as the
average American city. The victory . . . had been the signal for a con-
centrated attack on the entire range of community problems. It was
Pittsburgh's breakthrough/'43

Clearly, Lawrence viewed the primary victory as a mandate by
the party to continue the redevelopment program. It was the last time
he would be seriously challenged within his own party, and subse-
quent general election victories reinforced the commitment to pro-
ceed with urban renewal. Lawrence easily defeated subsequent Re-

254 <1 Don’t call me boss

publican challengers: Tice V. Ryan (1949) by a record-setting 56,000
votes; State legislator Leonard Kane (I9 5 3) by 55,000 votes; and former
Iudge Iohn Drew (1957) by 59,500 votes. He received the support of
all three Pittsburgh newspapers in each election. In Lawrence's view
the voters provided a consistently strong endorsement of the contract
of cooperation that had been written between the public and private
sectors. Regardless of occasional criticism from members of his own
party, the pattern he set during his first administration would con-
tinue unremittingly.

1946-1959
Creating a Renaissance:
Bricks and Mortar

On the evening of 22 March 1946, Mayor Lawrence received a call
from Fire Chief William Davis informing him of a spectacular fire
raging out of control in the railroad warehouse district at the Point.
Lawrence, his executive secretary, Iack Robin, and State Senator Ioe
Barr, who was in the mayor's office, went immediately to the area
and watched the inferno from the roof of the Pittsburgh Press build-
ing. For the next five hours they watched the Wabash Terminal com-
plex, with its rambling sheds and network of overpasses separating
the historic Point area from the rest of the city, turn into piles of
twisted metal, melted glass, and assorted rubble. They were unable
to contain their glee. The fire was a godsend. ”We enjoyed the fire,”
Iack Robin confessed later. ”What the hell, we knew the fire was help-
ing us.” The state's commitment to build a park at the Point had pre-
sented both an opportunity and a dilemma. The park could spur de-
velopment of the area immediately adjacent to it, yet most of these
twenty-three acres were privately owned. Unless they could be re-
developed, the park would become an isolated area, ”a haven for the
drifters who habitually loitered about the maze of alleys around the
railroad operations.” Court battles over property rights could delay
redevelopment for years. The Wabash fire would make negotiations
with the Pittsburgh and West Virginia Railroad, which controlled
much of the area, easier. If it agreed to vacate, other, smaller owners
would likely fall into line.1

Discussions about the condition of the lower triangle had begun
sometime in late 1945 among staff members of the Allegheny Con-
ference on Community Development. Wallace Richards and Arthur
Van Buskirk approached Charles I. Graham, president of the Pitts-
burgh and West Virginia Railroad, to enlist his help. During the dis-

255

256 <1 Don't call me boss

cussion, Graham mentioned the extensive blight removal work being
financed by life insurance capital in New York City. Since the con-
ference staff had originally considered erecting a number of high-rise
residential buildings in the area, they decided to contact the Metro-
politan Life Insurance Company, which had substantial investments
in New York, including two new housing developments. A meeting
was arranged for early Iune. The Wabash fire, meanwhile, heightened
the need for a complete redevelopment of the area.

Graham and conference representatives met with the president
of Metropolitan Life who told them that, because of the company's
large commitment in New York City, it was not interested in their
plan. The dejected group was about to return to Pittsburgh when
Graham suggested they try another source, Thomas Parkinson of the
Equitable Life Assurance Society, a friend of his and a fellow mem-
ber of the Pennsylvania Society. Parkinson agreed to see them with-
out an appointment, and they outlined their plan for the apartment
complex in the lower triangle. Assured that both smoke and flood
control were under way, Parkinson agreed to have his staff look into
the project. The meeting initiated a series of discussions that resulted
in the agreement by Equitable to fund what became known as the
Gateway Center project?

At about the same time that they began talks with Parkinson,
the group also realized that private action would not be enough. With-
out intervention and cooperation from the city, the project would fail.
They were proposing that hundreds of parcels of privately owned land
be acquired for use by other private individuals for a profit-making
venture. Refusal to sell by one or two owners in strategic locations
could kill the entire project. In addition, price speculation would cer-
tainly increase the cost. In Iuly, Richards, Van Buskirk, and Park Mar-
tin asked Lawrence to create a redevelopment authority for the city
of Pittsburgh. A recent state redevelopment act gave municipalities
the right to condemn and acquire land if the area was certified as
blighted, and to approve any new development before construction
began. Provided the law withstood the inevitable court tests, it gave
the city enormous power to bring about urban renewal.3

Creation of such an authority was crucial to the success of the
redevelopment process. First, it provided the city with an action or-
ganization that could interact with the private agencies. Second, an
authority could secure private funding for redevelopment projects,
thus isolating them from the vagaries of the voting public, which must
approve bond issues, and from the state legislature's armual appro-
priation battles. Finally, an authority would hold the power of emi-

Creating a Renaissance: Bricks and Mortar l> 257

nent domain. It could acquire large numbers of individually held prop-
erties, combine them into a site suitable for development, and sell
the site to a private developer. Lawrence immediately agreed to the
concept and promised to steer the enabling legislation through the
council, thereby virtually assuring creation of the state's first rede-
velopment authority.

The establishment of the Urban Redevelopment Authority of
Pittsburgh (URA) gave Lawrence a final opportunity to demonstrate
that he intended the renewal process to be above politics. To cement
relations with the Allegheny Conference, Lawrence planned to name
the conference chairman, Van Buskirk, as chairman of the authority.
Van Buskirk, however, presented a counter idea: the executive com-
mittee of the conference wanted the mayor to chair the authority.
”Arthur, that's ridiculous!” exclaimed a surprised Lawrence. ”You’re
going to put me in a very ludicrous position. I don't think there's a
case in all the history of this country where any man ever appointed
himself to the job. I just can't do that/'4 Lawrence eventually agreed,
on two conditions: first, if Van Buskirk served as vice-chairman, and
second, if the conference executive committee, the Chamber of Com-
merce, and the newspapers all asked him to be chairman. Van Bus-
kirk agreed to arrange the ”requests,” which came in the fall of 1946.
In December the mayor sent a letter to the city council requesting
the creation of a five-member redevelopment authority.

By prearrangement the council suspended the rules to allow an
immediate second and third reading of the bill. One of the most sig-
nificant pieces of legislation to be passed by that body sailed through
without debate. It received unanimous support. Within twenty-four
hours Lawrence armounced his five appointees: himself, Councilman
William Stewart, Arthur Van Buskirk, Edgar Kaufmarm, owner of
the department store, and I. Lester Perry, head of Carnegie Illinois
Steel. Van Buskirk, Kaufmann, and Perry, all Republicans, also sat
on the board of the Allegheny Conference. ”It was the first time in
my public career I knowingly put myself in the minority with three
Republicans and two Democrats on the board,” Lawrence later ex-
claimed. At its first meeting on 18 November 1946, Lawrence was
elected chairman and Van Buskirk vice-chairman, and Robin was
named acting director. Fifteen months later Robin became the full-
time director, and Ted Hazlett, counsel for the Allegheny Confer-
ence, became counsel for the URA.5

The creation of the URA demonstrated Lawrence's understand-
ing of the politics of urban redevelopment. While he did not initiate
the idea of an authority, he was quick to grasp its potential. As a quasi-

258 <1 Don’t call me boss

independent body, it enabled the government to interact on equal
terms with the Allegheny Conference, the Pennsylvania Economy
League, the Pittsburgh Regional Plarming Association, and other pri-
vate sector organizations interested in renewal of the city. The
makeup of the authority, moreover, completed the interlocking di-
rectorate that became the parent of the Renaissance. Lawrence also
sat on the sponsoring committee of the Allegheny Conference. Kauf-
mann and Perry represented the conference, and Kaufrnarm sat on
the board of the Pittsburgh Regional Planning Authority. Van Bus-
kirk sat on the executive committee of the Allegheny Conference and
was chief spokesman for the Mellon interests. Other individuals, such
as Martin, Hazlett, and Richards, represented several of the private
organizations simultaneously. Finally, while it was probably not nec-
essary to appoint a city council member to the authority—-the coun-
cil was unlikely to oppose the mayor on any program—the selection
of William Stewart gave that body a voice in the renewal process.
Lawrence, following the policy of ”virtual representation” he used in
selecting political candidates, seated a council member on every sub-
sequent city authority. The council responded by supporting renewal
programs with enthusiasm. Its active involvement in the redevelop-
ment, in turn, provided an important campaign issue on which to
stand for reelection.6

David Lawrence played several important roles in the physical
redevelopment of Pittsburgh. By virtue of his positions as mayor,
leader of the dominant political party, and chairman of the URA, he
became the chief spokesman and cheerleader for the various projects.
It was a role he relished and played with particular adroitness. Be-
ginning in 1947, he accepted nearly every invitation to speak about
the plans for the Gateway Center project and urged support for it.
Community development, in his eyes, became a civic virtue. Only
the ”meanest spirited citizen” would offer opposition. He regularly
devoted the majority of his annual state of the city messages, deliv-
ered over local radio and reprinted in the press, to the theme of urban
redevelopment. In each address he outlined the plans for the coming
year, commended the previous year's progress, and praised the efforts
of those involved. Opposition to the redevelopment of the city, he
told his listeners one year, was ”morally unacceptable.” He even aban-
doned his old disdain for plarming and plarmers. ”Nobody in this city
jibes at long-haired planners or theorists or double-domes. It isn't good
politics anymore and it never was good sense.”7

Lawrence also used the public relations power of his office to
scold those who resisted redevelopment in any way and to court those

Creating a Renaissance: Bricks and Mortar l> 259

who could be of assistance. When land speculators threatened to force
the prices of land parcels in the Gateway Center area to prohibitively
high levels, thus placing the renewal project in jeopardy, he warned
that taxes could be increased to thwart any potential windfall. When
lack of progress in removing the wreckage from the Wabash fire ap-
peared to be an obstacle to completing a redevelopment agreement
with the Equitable Life Assurance Society, he wrote to Charles Gra-
ham and the five insurance companies involved. The letters were re-
leased to the local press to apply public as well as official pressure
to the offending parties. When the numerous independent bus com-
panies repeatedly resisted using off-street terminals to help eliminate
traffic congestion, Lawrence, after several meetings with their repre-
sentatives, lost his patience. Pounding on the table, he announced
that citations would be issued, beginning the next day.8

In addition to acting as the spokesman and muscle behind the
Renaissance, Lawrence courted potential outside investors, a task he
greatly enjoyed. When a task force from Equitable visited Pittsburgh
in early 1947 to look at the site, Lawrence and other members of the
URA escorted the visitors on a tour of the area, hosted a luncheon,
and took them to Mount Washington, overlooking the city, for a long-
range view of the area. While he seldom took part in the actual ne-
gotiations with Equitable, the mayor repeated his tour guide and
luncheon activities several times before contracts were eventually
signed in February 1950.

Though not nearly as public as his efforts to champion the re-
development of the city, Lawrence's continued cultivation of mutu-
ally beneficial relations between the public and private sectors was
perhaps more important. He scrupulously avoided efforts by his po-
litical allies to turn the rebuilding process over to the machine and
was quick to praise the business elements, particularly the Allegheny
Conference, for their contributions. This appreciation became a com-
mon theme of Lawrence's during his remaining years in office.

Lawrence also maintained warm, although not close, relationships
with a number of key people in the redevelopment process. Richard
Mellon’s chief lieutenants, Arthur Van Buskirk and Adolph Schmidt,
worked with Lawrence as successive vice chairmen of the URA. In
addition, as the Pittsburgh Renaissance gained national fame, they
frequently traveled with the mayor to other cities to extol its suc-
cesses. Their frequent interactions produced a lasting mutual respect,
which they no doubt communicated to the ”General.” Mellon, in turn,
indicated that he shared their views when, much to the chagrin of
the Republican organization, he all but endorsed the mayor for re-

Growing Up l> 5

side, Oakland, Squirrel Hill, Fox Chapel, and Sewickley developed
along the periphery of the city, while formerly heterogeneous neigh-
borhoods were rapidly changing into mixed industrial, warehouse,
and blue-collar residential areas.

The Point district, located at the juncture of the Allegheny, Mo-
nongahela, and Ohio rivers, was just such an area. ”Good honest
people . . . live there, but they are, generally speaking, not of the most
cultured class. Balls and receptions are seldom held in First Ward
residences. The houses themselves are plain, but in many cases sub-
stantial, although it must be admitted quite a few are of the ancient
tirne-stained character. . . . Some are half a century or more in age and
are unsightly, rickety tenements.”4

Once a middle-income neighborhood, the Point became a settling
ground for Irish immigrants fleeing the Potato Famine of 1845-50.
Unlike the other Irish neighborhoods in Pittsburgh, which attracted
immigrants from a wide variety of regions, the ”Point Irish,” as they
came to be known, came from the barren moors and rugged moun-
tain villages of Galway. Possessing neither skills nor education, the
vast majority became common laborers in the small factories located
near the Point. The remainder tended bar in the district grogshops,
drove teams hauling goods throughout the business district, or loaded
and unloaded barges along the Monongahela wharf. Subject to an un-
stable Pittsburgh economy, harsh working conditions, and low wages,
many engaged in a continuous struggle for survival. A contemporary
source described the settlement at the Point as ”the filthiest and most
disagreeable locality within the city . . . almost entirely composed of
the poorer classes, living in many cases in extreme poverty, and oc-
cupying the merest apologies for houses/'5

Separated by class, culture, and language, residents of the Point,
not surprisingly, remained isolated from the rest of Pittsburgh through
much of the latter half of the nineteenth century. Even into the 1880s,
”nearly all spoke Irish [Gaelic] so much that men who had worked
more than twelve years could hardly make themselves understood
in English/'6 Parents continued to teach their children the ancient
language, and most retained close contact with their kin in Ireland.

V

The families of Isaac Lawrence and Charles Conwell, unlike most
of their compatriots at the Point, emigrated from Belfast sometime
after 1847. They settled within three blocks of each other. Both fami-
lies were apparently somewhat better off than their less fortunate
neighbors. Lawrence, a stonemason in Ireland, began work as a laborer

260 <1 Don’t call me boss

election in 19 5 3. At the groundbreaking ceremonies of Mellon Square,
the one-block-square park in the center of the business district that
was his gift to the city, Mellon told the crowd, ”I want you to know,
that Mayor Lawrence has been most cooperative. If it hadn't been for
Mayor Lawrence and his associates, we might have been many years
in getting this project started.” The statement, according to Schmidt,
was carefully plarmed to indicate R. K. Mellon’s support for Lawrence
without actually rejecting his own party's choice for mayor, Leonard
Kane. Other prominent corporate executives with whom Lawrence
successfully developed a close working relationship included Edgar
Kaufmarm, a member of the URA until his death in 19 5 5, Leland Haz-
ard, vice-president of Pittsburgh Plate Glass, and Gwilym Price, presi-
dent of Westinghouse. In none of these instances did Lawrence develop
a close personal relationship, nor was one expected. Similarly, politi-
cal views remained entrenched at opposite poles. Rather, a sense of
trust grew. Lawrence viewed himself as the central element in the
public-private sector relationship and worked to reinforce the mutu-
ally positive attitudes. ”I am very proud that the mayor can be a unify-
ing force in this community and not a divider,” he told the Press Club
on the eve of his fourth campaign for mayor. ”I am very proud that
the mayor can muster the full energies of this powerful and produc-
tive city and set them to work in common causes, instead of wasting
them in internal conflict/'9

Lawrence's relationship with Pittsburgh's city council also played
a crucial role in the redevelopment of the city. Although council mem-
bers attributed their almost total compliance with the mayor to ”like
minds” on most issues, the fact remains that Lawrence dominated
the council by his decisive influence in the selection of candidates.
For thirteen years the council provided the mayor with near unani-
mous votes on every important issue brought before it, including bond
issues for improvement of the city's infrastructure, rezoning, land con-
demnation, creation of a parking authority, tax increases, and, of
course, the mayor's armual budgets. From the beginning of Lawrence's
first term in 1946 through his last day in office in 1959, the council
rejected fewer than half a dozen minor requests by the mayor. 1° Most
of these passed on later readings. The view from the business com-
munity deeply involved in the Renaissance was that the municipal-
ity was run much like a well-organized corporation. The chief execu-
tive, Lawrence, made the major decisions, and his staff, including the
council, carried them out. Although overly simplistic, this under-
standing resulted in a confidence among the business community that
agreements between it and Lawrence would be put into effect. The

Creating a Renaissance: Bricks and Mortar [> 261

mayor ran an efficient organization that implemented a large variety
of renewal proposals, many of them controversial, with little delay
or political infighting.

Finally, although all of Lawrence's roles were intertwined, his posi-
tion as chairman of the URA affected the Renaissance most directly.
The authority became involved in every major project undertaken
during the Lawrence administration, and Lawrence conducted virtu-
ally every meeting.“ He continued as its chairman, commuting from
Harrisburg and Washington, D.C., to attend meetings, until his death
in 1966. He interacted with both local and outside business interests
when necessary to spur action on projects, testified before local and
state legislative and legal bodies in support of redevelopment issues,
and generated public support, particularly in his state of the city ad-
dresses, for URA programs. Most important, he provided symbolic
leadership for the public sector. The combination of the mayor and
Van Buskirk, representing the Mellon interests, as chairman and vice-
chairman gave the organization instant credibility.

V

The physical redevelopment of the city began at the Gateway
Center project and spread outward. The redevelopment of the twenty-
three-acre site was inherited by Lawrence when he took office in 1946.
Allegheny Conference planners conceived the redevelopment along
with a plan for a park at the city's apex. The mayor enthusiastically
endorsed the idea, calling it ”a powerful force for the preservation of
[property] values in the whole triangle area/'12 His willingness to cre-
ate the URA and serve as its chairman grew out of his support for
the Gateway Center project.

Negotiations with the Equitable Life Assurance Society stretched
over four years as a number of problems developed. The original idea
of an apartment complex gave way to high-rise office structures when
Equitable officials pointed out that Pittsburgh, as a headquarters city,
was desperately in need of suitable office space. No new office build-
ings had been constructed in eighteen years, and occupancy in 1946
reached 99 percent. The URA, which took over the negotiations with
Equitable, agreed and began condemnation proceedings and land pur-
chases to accumulate the necessary properties.

The first major snag developed in March 1949 when the URA
members, Robin, and several others arrived in New York City to sign
preliminary agreements with Equitable. With unfortunate timing, the
Pittsburgh papers announced that U.S. Steel and Mellon Bank plarmed
to erect their own headquarters buildings, but not in the Gateway

262 <1 Don’t call me boss

Center area. Equitable officials expressed surprise and concern that
other companies might follow the example of the city's two largest
corporations and leave them with empty or partially empty build-
ings. They now insisted on guarantees of occupancy for a minimum
of twenty years and assurances that 60 percent of the buildings would
be occupied upon completion. R. K. Mellon and Van Buskirk, speak-
ing for the authority, approached many corporations to put pressure
on them to sign the leases. When two of the largest objected, Mellon
told them, ”The Mellon family is not going to redevelop this city . . .
if companies like yours are not going to play a major role, it's just
as simple as that/'13

Meanwhile the URA was taking action on its own. Iack Robin
drafted a letter of intent to the Equitable president to be signed by
the presidents of the various corporations expected to lease space. It
committed each corporation to lease a specified amount of office space
for a specified period of time. Over Lawrence's signature, a cover let-
ter expressed ”hope that the enclosed letter will be sent to Mr. Parkin-
son at your earliest convenience.” In addition, the authority worked
to reduce rents. Equitable originally pledged a payment of $2 million
to the URA in return for its services in accumulating the necessary
properties. The authority agreed to reduce its fee to $1 million if Equi-
table would lower its rents by a similar amount. The URA also secured
a major tenant when it agreed to purchase the existing ]ones and
Laughlin Steel ofiice building, thereby freeing the company to move
to the Gateway site. (Ultimately seven Pittsburgh-based corporations
moved their headquarters to the Gateway buildings, and three others,
including Mellon Bank, occupied additional space. The three build-
ings were completed in 19 5 3, and six additional structures and an un-
derground parking garage were added during the next decade.) Law-
rence took such great joy in announcing the final agreement between
the URA and Equitable that he canceled an appointment with Presi-
dent Truman in order to be at the signing ceremonies on 14 February
1950. Unable to contain his pride, he delivered a brief address liber-
ally sprinkled with hyperbole. ”Thus redevelopment is Pittsburgh's
greatest achievement in a generation. . . . We are taking a national
lead in community planning and community advancement. T oday’s
work has been a giant step forward/'14

A second major obstacle to the Gateway project had become ap-
parent approximately two week earlier at the public hearings held
in city council chambers. While most of those present testified in
favor of the plan, a number who owned property in the redevelop-
ment area offered strong objections. The protests and the subsequent

Creating a Renaissance: Bricks and Mortar l> 263

court tests rested on two major points. First, according to the state
redevelopment law, the City Planning Commission had to certify an
area as blighted before condemnation proceedings could begin, and
many of the buildings did not fit that description. Second, the land
was to be taken from one group of private owners to be turned over
to another. On 22 April 1950, reacting quickly to a suit brought by
Duffs’ Iron City College, the Court of Common Pleas ruled that per-
sonal inconvenience must yield to social and economic progress. Sub-
sequent tests in the Pennsylvania and U.S. Supreme Courts upheld
the ruling. The Gateway project, the key to the physical renewal of
Pittsburgh, began almost immediately.

Other proposals, plans, and projects followed quickly. The Mellon
Square park complex, the enlarging and rehabilitating of Children's
Hospital in Oakland, the redevelopment of the Central North Side,
and other minor projects all received attention from Lawrence dur-
ing the next eight years. But three programs, the South Side indus-
trial project, construction of a civic arena, and housing for the poor
demanded most of his time.

The seven-point program offered by Lawrence in the election cam-
paign of I94 5 recognized that the city's needs were multidimensional.
Environmental controls and redevelopment of the central business
district were desperately needed, as were efforts to expand and diver-
sify Pittsburgh's aging industries. Once again taking his cue from a
statement of goals developed by the Allegheny Conference on Com-
munity Development, Lawrence had promised to create an industrial
expansion committee. His fiscal conservatism convinced him that
the city's health depended upon the strength of its industrial base,
but flood and smoke control and labor problems initially diverted his
attention. The weak economy, however, remained a serious concern
and Lawrence raised it for discussion at the organizational meeting
of the URA in November 1946. The authority, which as yet had no
funds of its own and no full-time staff, recognized that it could do
little and turned to its private sector ally, the Allegheny Conference.
At the request of the mayor, the conference agreed on Io February
1947 to establish an Industrial-Economic Research Council to deter-
mine ways to expand existing industries and to ”determine what new
diversified industries are best suited to the area.” The conference sup-
plied funds to hire an industrial economist as consultant.”

The rapidly improved environmental conditions, a strong post-
war economy, and the efforts of the conference and the URA led to
spectacular successes. During a two-year period, General Motors Cor-
poration, Continental Can, Pittsburgh Plate Glass, Pittsburgh Coke

264 <1 Don’t call me boss

and Chemical Company, the Koppers Company, Copperweld, and
Allis-Chalmers all armounced the building of new plants in the area.
The city administration cut red tape where it could but generally
played a minor role. The improved local environment and national
economic conditions induced the growth.

The South Side expansion of Iones and Laughlin steelworks, how-
ever, required the concerted efforts of the Lawrence administration
and the URA. Early in 1948, the company announced plans to install
six new ”giant” open hearth furnaces in an expansion expected to pro-
duce more than two thousand additional jobs. The firm indicated it
had not yet determined the location of the new furnaces. Possibili-
ties included its South Side Pittsburgh works, Aliquippa in Beaver
County, and Cleveland, Ohio. The URA decided to enter into nego-
tiations to induce Iones and Laughlin to select the Pittsburgh loca-
tion, a 19.5-acre site containing sixty-one workers’ houses and several
small commercial establishments. Robin and Hazlett were directed
to enter into negotations with the steel firm. The project became the
first industrial redevelopment project of its type in the United States.

As had been true in making land available for the Gateway proj-
ect, the existence of the authority gave Pittsburgh a clear advantage
over the other two sites. With the approval of the city council and
City Plarming, the URA had the power to condemn the existing struc-
tures, negotiate with the owners, purchase the property, and sell the
entire site to Jones and Laughlin. In contrast, the firm faced the har-
rowing prospect of negotiating with individual owners in the other
two locations. In mid 1949 it announced that it had reached a ”general
understanding” with the authority. The URA would be responsible
for land acquisition and would negotiate with the city to vacate streets,
would install utilities, and would purchase any publicly owned prop-
erties. These three conditions, of course, were never in doubt, since
the chairman of the URA was also the mayor and leader of the nine
Democrats on the city council. Iones and Laughlin would pay all costs
and a $50,000 fee to the URA for its services and would install the
furnaces in the stipulated area.“

Lawrence personally cleared another hurdle when he met with
Philip Murray, president of the CIO, whom he knew well. The prob-
lem was that the houses that had to be condemned were owned by
steelworkers. After a long discussion, Murray agreed that the work-
ers had to be made to see that the job security of the whole South
Side depended on the viability of Iones and Laughlin, and he offered
to help.”

The council hearing on 10 November 1949 was a carefully orches-

Creating a Renaissance: Bricks and Mortar D 265

trated performance designed not only to secure council approval but
to convince the media and public of the merits of the program. Fred
Bigger, chairman of the City Planning Commission spoke first, ex-
plaining that the ”blighted” condition of the proposed site meant that
Iones and Laughlin would rid the city of an existing slum. The coun-
cil chairman, Thomas Kilgallen then introduced the chairman of the
URA, reminding the audience that Lawrence was chairman because
the other four members insisted. Lawrence explained that the city
had been in danger of losing not only the Iones and Laughlin expan-
sion but the entire industry. Then, using the identical words he used
to the council about the Gateway area, he professed his empathy for
the residents. ”I know a lot about the problem of dislocation, because
when the railroad came to the Point, they took over our home and
I know something about the problem. I would like to approach it
from the standpoint of Pittsburgh and saving Pittsburgh.” He would
repeat this argument before the council in 19 52 regarding a proposed
Iones and Laughlin expansion in another Pittsburgh community and
in 196 3 regarding property clearance for the Children's Hospital proj-
ect. His guiding principle for the Renaissance was that individual
rights were to be respected but must always give way to the greater
common good. The city, in Lawrence's view, was not merely an en-
tity in which private entrepreneurs and speculators operated profit-
making ventures. The public-private sector coalition guaranteed that
the ”Private City” concept that was the driving force in nineteenth-
century Philadelphia was obsolete in mid-twentieth-century Pitts-
burgh. After a brief presentation by Robin, the city council, as ex-
pected, approved the project by a unanimous vote.13

Once approvals were secured and contracts signed, Lawrence as
usual turned the program over to the technical experts. He visited
the area several times during the early negotations to meet with resi-
dents to assure them that they would receive fair settlements, but
he generally turned to other matters. Lawrence also attended the set-
tlement signing ceremonies held in a South Side tavern. ”I’ll never
forget that night,” Ted Hazlett recalled. ”We went to a beer garden
over there and had a long table with interpreters [many of the resi-
dents had difficulty with English] and all these deeds we had prepared,
and signed everybody up and then we opened up the beer kegs.”19

It is difficult to determine whether residents were adequately
compensated for their property. Settlements were modest, but the
structures and the land upon which they were built carried assess-
ments well under the city average. Payments in every case exceeded
assessments by more than IO percent. Those who were represented

266 <1 Don't call me boss

by counsel, retained by a newly formed citizens’ protective society,
clearly considered the settlements fair. The URA arranged agreements
with the families without once having to resort to condemnation
proceedings.

Iones and Laughlin completed its multimillion-dollar project
within several years and returned to the authority in 19 52 with plans
to expand its Hazelwood—Glen Hazel plant just across the Mononga-
hela River from the South Side plant. In total the firm spent more
than $25 million in expanding its Pittsburgh plants.” In addition to
its economic impact the Jones and Laughlin South Side expansion
was vitally important to the redevelopment process in Pittsburgh.
It was the first capital expansion project undertaken by the URA, and
for it the authority created a model procedure to which it returned
repeatedly in the next several years.

V

Of all the redevelopment projects, none evoked more controversy
and involved Lawrence more than the one that began most innocu-
ously. On 4 February 1949, Edgar I. Kaufmann, a devoted supporter
of the arts, sent a letter to Mayor Lawrence pledging a $500,000 con-
tribution for ”the construction of an arena . . . which will be suitable
for the presentation of light opera of the type produced by the Civic
Light Opera Association and for other purposes.” The gift was to be
matched by a similar amount from the city treasury. The Kaufmann
Foundation and the Allegheny Conference would ”arrange and pay
for preliminary surveys for the project, including studies of the prac-
ticability and cost of a removable roof.” The city was to select the
site for the auditorium, accept responsibility for its operation, and
receive full title to the building. Several days later, Lawrence asked
the city council to accept the gift, adding that ”the city's contribu-
tion may be provided from bond funds, thus easing any immediate
demands upon the city budget. It is my belief that the project will
actually be self-liquidating . . . because of the return to the City Trea-
sury from the ten percent levy on admissions.”21 The Allegheny Con-
ference and the Pittsburgh Regional Planning Association offered to
conduct a site selection study at no expense to the city. The council
voted eight to one to accept the offer.

The selection committee originally considered fifteen sites. Its
choice, by an overwhelming majority of its members, was in the East
End at the terminus of North Negley Avenue, near Highland Park.”
The site encompassed most of the estate of millionaire Robert B. King,
an uncle of Richard King Mellon, and included several other private

Creating a Renaissance: Bricks and Mortar l> 267

homes. The area was bordered by large n1iddle- and upper-middle-class
homes, most of which were less than forty years old. It is difficult
to imagine a more improbable choice. Introduction of a public arena
would have had a detrimental effect on the stable neighborhood,
which could by no stretch of the imagination be called blighted. Fur-
thermore, despite the site’s proximity to trolley lines and its distance
from the central business district, the absence of adequate highways
would have created huge traffic problems.

Twenty-four hours after a bill to condemn the area was intro-
duced in city council, petitions bearing more than one thousand sig-
natures arrived. A few days later at a public hearing, three hundred
East End residents, most of them in opposition, jammed council cham-
bers. I. Vincent Burke, an attorney representing the signers of the pe-
titions, attacked the ”terrible power of eminent domain.” He charged
that in taking land for entertainment purposes, the city would be ex-
ceeding its power. Councilman Eddie Leonard joined the opposition,
airing his favorite grievance against the Lawrence administration-
the closed-door caucus. He was told that neither the mayor nor any
member of council had anything to do with the selection. (Nor, cu-
riously, did the city planning ofl‘ice.) ”Everyone knows that the Alle-
gheny Conference controls both political parties,” Leonard retorted.23

However, what proved to be the most effective part of the pro-
test came last, when seventy-four-year-old Robert B. King hobbled to
the stand. Dressed in black tie and hard collar and leaning on his cane,
King, whose wife had died three weeks earlier, called the proposal
his second tragedy in less than a month.

I am in favor of light opera and musical comedy but I am
against the proposal by promoters who may think that this
particular site which is now a refuge for birds and wild life, can
be man-made by destruction into something better than God
made it. This neighborhood represents my lifetime’s work in a
development that has given the people a pleasant and peaceful
place in which to live. . . .

After long thought and careful consideration, I make this
suggestion which I hope you will regard as constructive: If the
city will agree to let me live out my life unmolested, where I
am now living, I will agree to give to the city the property . . .
upon the condition that the city use the property . . . for park
purposes only, which all of the people may enjoy forever and
upon the condition that no arena or other building be erected
to the detriment of my neighbors and neighborhood.“

268 <1 Don’t call me boss

King ended to a thunderous ovation and, according to the press, a few
tears from the overflow audience. He became an instant folk hero
with the press.

The mayor and council were unmoved. The site, Lawrence be-
lieved, was in the best interests of the city. The following Monday,
at the usual private session, the caucus decided to accept the selec-
tion committee's recommendation agreeing that the site was clearly
the best of all possible choices, and rejected the King proposal. The
council approved the site on 18 Iuly, and Lawrence signed the ordi-
nance two days later commenting, ”We are doing exactly the right
thing and every public official who is worth his salt has to make deci-
sions which some people oppose and the only standard is to deter-
mine what serves the greatest good of the greatest number. We can't
have good government by pressure groups. Every test shows that this
is the best available site in the city.”-”~5

Within two weeks the Public Works Department moved in and
began to cut down trees and drill test holes. On the following day
Robert King's attorney requested an injunction to stop the city until
a court appeal could be filed. judge Thomas Marshall granted the re-
quest for a two-week period beginning 3 August. In the interim sev-
eral neighborhood organizations, including the East End Residents
Association and the East Liberty Chamber of Commerce, joined in
the opposition. Letters to the editor took both sides, but the majority
supported the neighborhood position.

Two days prior to the expiration of the injunction, Lawrence sur-
prised the city by reversing his position. In a letter to the Allegheny
Conference chairman, Edward Weidlein, he armounced that the High-
land Park site was being dropped and that the city plarming commis-
sion would be asked to recommend another site. He gave a curious
set of reasons.

Despite the opinion reached by the technicians, and accepted
by us, that the Highland Park site is the best use for the pur-
pose, so much time has been consumed in discussion and legal
action that it is now physically impossible to construct the
outdoor theater in time to make use of it during the summer
of 1950. . . .

[Therefore] we are able without sacrifice of the objec-
tives, . . . to give renewed thought and study to the problem of
the site. . . .

I now propose that we initiate . . . a review and reanaly-
sis . . . which will be understood and supported by the great

Creating a Renaissance: Bricks and Mortar D 269

majority of our citizens. That is how all controversies must be
resolved under a system of free govemment.26

Lawrence's reversal ignored his own reasoning of one month ear-
lier and the fact that three technical groups and the architect had
recommended the Highland Park site. A five-week lapse from the an-
nouncement of the project, he argued, now warranted a full reanalysis.

On the surface it appears that Lawrence was simply bowing to
public pressure. That conclusion, however, is unwarranted. Though
protesters were vociferous and had the sympathy of the press, they
were most likely a minority. It was certainly not an issue on which
future elections would be decided. Furthermore, Lawrence, in his
battle to install the city's smoke control ordinances, had demonstrated
that he was more than willing to take political risks on important
issues. The civic arena, of course, pales in significance in compari-
son, yet by rejecting the chosen site he ran a far greater risk than that
presented by the disgruntled citizens of the neighborhood: the Alle-
gheny Conference, which the mayor had carefully courted, was dis-
pleased. In its response, its chairman lectured Lawrence in words al-
most identical to those frequently used by the mayor himself. ”It
must always be remembered that, if necessary, private interests must
be subordinated to the public benefit. . . . The Allegheny Conference
has shared the views of the experts . . . that the Highland Park site
is the best one so far examined, and you and the city council have
reached the same conclusion. The Executive Committee of the Con-
ference has found no reason to change the views expressed/'27 Granted
no other recourse, the conference reluctantly agreed to reexamine
the issue. Lawrence's reversal had the potential for creating a serious
breach of confidence between him and the conference. The reason
had to be more than political expediency.

A far more logical explanation rests with the threatened court
tests. Not only would a lengthy series of court cases seriously delay
the project. More important was the possibility that the city's liberal
interpretation of its power of condemnation might be rejected. The
city had in effect decided that any project deemed to be in the public
good was permissible, and the plarming ofiice followed that philoso-
phy in exercising its power to designate an area as blighted. A more
restrictive ruling by the courts would place the entire renewal pro-
gram in jeopardy. It was a court case Lawrence and his advisers were
most anxious to avoid. Abandoning the Highland Park site eliminated
a potential legal threat to the Renaissance.

The alternative site chosen by the City Planning Commission,

Pittsburgh Series in Social and Labor History

6 <1 Don’t call me boss

at the Duquesne Freight House of the Pennsylvania Railroad. Even-
tually he managed to save enough money to open a small shoe repair
shop on Penn Avenue. The Lawrence home occupied the second floor
of the shop. Charles Conwell, a stonecutter in Ireland, held a similar
job in Pittsburgh until his involvement in politics enabled him to
secure a job as a ward assessor in 1866.

Charles B. Lawrence, the second son of Isaac, married Catherine
Conwell, the third of nine girls, at St. Mary of Mercy Catholic Church
in 1880. The union produced four children: Isaac, Charles, Mary, and
David, who was born on 18 Iune 1889.7 The young couple rented a home
in the Irish neighborhood, two blocks from their parents. Located on
the corner of Greentree Alley and Penn Avenue, they coexisted with
warehouses, railroad yards, small factories, and several houses of
gambling and occasional prostitution.

David lived the first ten years of his life in this area rich with
opportunities to satisfy a young boy’s curiosity. The Lawrence home,
a modest two-story frame structure, was bounded on the north by
the Haugh and Keenan storage warehouse and on the west by a plan-
ing mill and the Chautauqua Eureka Ice Company. The presence of
a boiler works just across the street, two additional planing mills,
an iron works, and several machine shops in the immediate vicinity
must have produced a constant din in the Lawrence household. The
St. Mary of Mercy Convent and Elementary School were directly
across Penn Avenue, and the historic Fort Pitt Blockhouse, the only
remaining remnant of the eighteenth-century British occupation of
the city, lay just two blocks to the east. Railroad tracks carrying Iay
Gould's Wabash Line cars intersected the area, bringing additional
smoke and dirt to Greentree Alley.

The city's rivers, an easy two-minute walk to the west, were
centers of constant activity. Exposition, Mechanics, and Symphony
halls, located on the banks of the Allegheny, hosted frequent ex-
hibitions, musicals, and even an occasional circus. A twenty-five-
cent fee provided admission to displays depicting the Iohnstown
flood, the San Francisco earthquake, and the Battle of the Monitor
and the Merrimac. Exposition Hall's permanent outdoor balcony for
strollers and a roller skating rink made the area a favorite recreation
spot. Young boys such as David Lawrence and his friends were no
doubt captivated by the Ferris wheel, roller coaster, merry-go-round,
and other amusement rides located there. The Monongahela River
bank, more commercial than the Allegheny, was usually filled to ca-
pacity with barges and stem-wheeler boats loading and unloading
goods. Horse-pulled wagons jammed the streets to and from the river

270 <1 Don’t call me boss

Schenley Park in the Oakland district, presented no such problem
because the land was wholly owned by the city. However, a court
challenge on the grounds that building an arena would violate the
terms by which Mary Schenley donated the land delayed construc-
tion for a full eighteen months. The city was ready to proceed by the
summer of 1951 when a third alternative was considered.

The final choice grew out of a series of discussions over several
years by the URA and its staff regarding the condition of Pittsburgh's
Lower Hill. A high-density black and ethnic neighborhood bordering
on the central business district, the Hill had long been considered
the city's worst slum. With the Gateway and Iones and Laughlin South
Side projects now under way, the URA turned its attention to the
area above Grant Street. In Ianuary 1951 it armounced its intention
to act as the agency for the redevelopment of the Lower Hill. There
would be no difficulty in having the area certified as blighted. A $5
million grant by the federal Housing and Home Finance Agency was
expected to provide the initial funding. Additional funds were added
later. For the first time in the renewal program— $100 million in pri-
vate funds had already been expended or promised—the city turned
to the federal government for aid.

Several months later the URA presented its program to the city
council. The proposal covered more than Ioo acres and would even-
tually affect I5 51 families. It consisted of four major parts: slum
clearance ; construction of a ”Crosstown Boulevard” highway system;
development of 30 acres for new homes to be built by the Pittsburgh
Housing Authority or private contractors; and clearance of an area
for a sports arena, auditorium, and open-air parking lot for 2ooo cars.
While no mention was made of the Civic Light Opera project, it is
reasonable to assume that it must have at least crossed the minds
of Lawrence and Robin. They did not suggest integrating it into the
Lower Hill project until March 1952, a full year later.

In carrying out the plan, the URA, while seeking public funding
as a guarantee of credit to enable it to purchase the land, expected
to follow the same procedure used in the two earlier programs. Cleared
land would be sold to developers at a modest price. The proceeds
would be used to purchase and clear additional land. Expected losses
would be covered by federal and state funding programs.”

By early 1952, when the project was expected to get underway,
a new administration, less favorable to the Lawrence regime in Pitts-
burgh and to the massive use of federal funds for urban renewal, had
assumed office in Washington. A Republican governor, Iohn Fine, and
a Republican State Senate and House proved equally reluctant to send

Creating a Renaissance: Bricks and Mortar [> 271

large grants to the Democratic administration in Pittsburgh. Thus,
while planning continued, the actual purchase and demolition of prop-
erties did not begin until 1956.

The plan for an auditorium, which was incorporated into the
Lower Hill project in 19 53, was similarly stalled. One year earlier, the
chairman of the Civic Light Opera site selection committee suggested
that it might be time to consider building a multi-use auditorium in
the Lower Hill as a home for the light opera, sports events, and other
cultural activities. The A.W. Mellon Educational and Charitable Trust
authorized $30,000 for such a study and the Heinz Foundation added
another $10,000. In February 19 5 3 Lawrence, Robin, and Martin traveled
on a DC-3—supplied by the Koppers Corporation—to Palm Springs,
California, to meet with a vacationing Edgar Kaufmann. Kaufmann
approved the latest plans and pledged $1 million toward construction
of the arena. The $500,000 increase from the earlier pledge was to
cover the cost of the retractable roof. In December, Kaufmarm doubled
his offer.”

It was not until September 19 5 5 that the entire plan was presented
to and approved by the city council. The plan received unanimous
support from virtually every segment of the community: local, state,
and federal agencies; private sector groups such as the Chamber of
Commerce, Allegheny Conference, Civic Light Opera Association,
and Pittsburgh Housing Authority; and churches in the affected area,
such as the African Methodist Episcopal Church.3°

Seven months later the first properties were purchased, and de-
molition began in November 1956. By 1966 the area contained the
arena (completed in 1961), a 396-unit apartment building (1964), the
Chatham Center apartment and hotel complex (1966), and an open-
air parking lot for several thousand automobiles. A vacant lot above
the arena (9.2 acres) was reserved for construction of a symphony hall,
a convention center, and related facilities, a project that was never
initiated. The lot remains vacant today.

The Lower Hill project remains the most criticized of all those
undertaken by the Lawrence administration. Almost from the start,
critics labeled it urban removal rather than urban renewal. Certainly
the charge that it did not contribute to desegregation of the city but
merely increased the density in the black Middle and Upper Hill is
accurate. Nearly 8oo of the 1239 black families relocated into the al-
ready densely populated Third, Fourth, and Fifth wards; most of the
others who stayed in the city gravitated to the other black neighbor-
hoods. Almost none of the 312 white families, in contrast, settled in
predominantly black neighborhoods.“

272 <1 Don't call me boss

The problem was one of which Lawrence and the URA members
were fully aware. As early as March 19 53, nearly three years before
the demolition began, a URA resolution pointed out that because of
the lack of open housing practices in the city, relocation might have
a detrimental effect. The supply of homes available to blacks, the
resolution suggested, was simply not large enough to meet the newly
created demand. The authority noted its support of the formation of
Private Housing Incorporated (later renamed Action Housing Incor-
porated) to aid minority groups in resettlement. Later the URA, at
the request of the housing committee of the local NAACP chapter,
agreed to work with the Commission on Human Relations and the
housing authority to try to solve relocation problems. The city, at
the same time, attempted to increase the number of homes available
to blacks by passing a Fair Housing Act in 19 58. The Pittsburgh Hous-
ing Authority, with more than a decade of experience in building and
operating low-rent housing units, was given the task of carrying out
the actual relocation. A full-time relocation director, Ralph Harkins,
negotiated individually with each home owner and attempted to find
suitable replacement accommodations.

While the results were less than satisfactory, the severe criticism
seems unwarranted when one examines the data. There was over-
whelming evidence that the Lower Hill was a prime site for urban
redevelopment. It had deteriorated beyond the point of rehabilitation.
Its density of nearly ninety persons per acre far exceeded the city aver-
age, and health conditions were abominable. The incidence of tuber-
culosis was three times that of the rest of the city. Buildings were
old and badly deteriorated. Before redevelopment 681 of the existing
901 residential structures were classified as substandard; many had
been condemned as unsafe. Several of the units housed large num-
bers of unattached individuals, the worst being a barn that contained
forty residents who paid $11.50 per week rent. A 19 53 building inspec-
tor’s report described the structure as ”a real fire hazard” with ”too
many dangerous conditions to mention” and noted that after dark the
halls were filled with drug dealers and buyers, prostitutes, and mug-
gers. A series of articles by the Pittsburgh Press suggested that some
families welcomed the opportunity to relocate, while others pro-
tested that the price offered for their property was too low. The series
also revealed the mixed and somewhat colorful character of the
Lower Hill. ”Racket millionaires protest as bitterly about moving as
families without shoes. . . . Numbers barons prowl the streets in
shiny Cadillacs looking for new headquarters. . . . The ‘floating crap
games’ are in such a state of flux that even veteran players have

Creating a Renaissance: Bricks and Mortar l> 273

trouble keeping track of locations of dice tables. . . . Up on Wylie Ave-
nue, ’Madame X,’ a bejeweled gypsy, is singing the blues: ’My crystal
ball is mighty cloudy these days ’cause I don't know where I'm gonna
move.”’ The articles noted that the housing authority, which permit-
ted residents to remain in the structures for some time after purchas-
ing them, ”sometimes found itself managing numbers parlors or a
speakeasy.’’32 ,

Crucial problems, however, were the level of income of the resi-
dents, the availability of alternative housing, and the method of ac-
quisition used by the federal Housing and Home Finance Agency.
Nearly all permanent residents of the area were poor. Unlike the resi-
dents of the area acquired for the Iones and Laughlin project, few
owned their own homes, and three fourths required low-rent hous-
ing. Approximately one-third were relocated into the Addison Ter-
race, Alliquippa Terrace, and Bedford Dwellings public units, but
the number of units available was far short of the need. Even more
crucial was the shortage of private family residences throughout Pitts-
burgh. In 19 56, according to a survey conducted by the Allegheny Con-
ference, only 2 percent of the existing housing stock was vacant. The
proportion of homes available to black residents was even less. The
settlement fees provided to home owners by the Housing and Home
Finance Agency compounded the problem. Government regulations
stipulated that agencies such as the URA appraise homes at fair mar-
ket value plus a small bonus for inconvenience. Replacement costs
were not considered. Low-income residents, receiving meager settle-
ments, could be expected to have difiiculty finding adequate hous-
ing. The shortage of private and subsidized housing and existing ra-
cial covenants made it almost impossible.

The Pittsburgh Housing Authority, nevertheless, managed to find
housing rated as standard or above for I218 of the 1299 families relo-
cated in the city; 447 moved into public housing, while the remain-
der found private property for rent or sale. Approximately 80 fami-
lies, mostly nonwhite, moved into substandard housing. Three years
after relocation began, 67 percent of the families lived in ”better hous-
ing than they had in the Lower Hill.” Most, perhaps surprisingly,
thought that ”overcrowding was considerably relieved.”33

Those involved with the redevelopment of the Lower Hill con-
tinue to defend the project today. lack Robin, URA director at the
beginning of the project, attempted to place it in its historical con-
text. ”At that time . . . we were talking about public housing in a sub-
sidized form. And, Pittsburgh was one of the leading cities in doing
public housing. . . . We never thought of using the power of the Au-

274 <1 Don't call me boss

thority to make below market loans for homeowners. . . . We did what
the times and the government called for.” Hazlett, Robin's successor,
told how it felt.

We just didn't have enough housing. . . . After you sit in your
ofl-lce for days with people coming in to you and crying about
having to move, . . . it gets to you. The only way I could break
out was to take a walk and see, actually see the conditions
these people were living in. Then I would get reassured. . . .
Yes, we were going to create problems in this process but what
is the answer? . . . There's got to be a recognition that it takes
more than all this strange sort of intellectualism that has been
going on in my judgment for the last twenty years [the criti-
cism of the project]. I still think that the people that moved out
of that Hill are better housed today than they were and we also
uncovered a lot of [social] problems. We stopped sweeping the
dirt under the rug.34

At the opposite extreme, one critic (undoubtedly the most vocal),
while recognizing the diflficulties of housing relocation, makes a
sweeping condemnation of the entire project. ”Glistening in isolated
splendor amid expressways and parking lots, it [the civic arena] has
turned out to be something of a civic incubus. For the Negro com-
munity, it has been a highly visible symbol of old-style renewal, in-
different to the housing needs of low-income families. The atrociously
planned parking lot causes long delays in exiting after a major
event. . . . By any criterion, the retractable roof was a disaster. It added
enormously to the expense and is hardly ever practical to open be-
cause of weather, wind or noise. The roof did not improve an acous-
tics problem that makes musical entertainment at the Civic Arena
a painful experience for all concemed.”35

The Lower Hill project was a mixed success, providing ammuni-
tion for both defenders and critics. The courageous undertaking—it
was the largest urban renewal attempt in the nation at that date — rid
the community of a long-standing slum and partially extended the
central business district beyond its former narrow limits. At the same
time it provided a central location for the long-sought arena and for
what Lawrence hoped would become ”an Acropolis —with symphony,
art museum and so forth.” The somewhat grandiose plans were aban-
doned when the Heinz family decided to rehabilitate a 19203 movie
palace in the center of the city as the home for the symphony.

The charge that the redevelopers showed little concern for the

Creating a Renaissance: Bricks and Mortar l> 275

plight of the residents of the Lower Hill or that housing conditions
were made worse by relocation appears, in the light of the evidence,
without foundation. Housing director Al Tronzo, Ted Hazlett, the
URA, and many others were fully aware of the hardships caused by
relocation and expended considerable effort to alleviate them. Law-
rence personally petitioned Washington—unsuccessfully—several
times, seeking funds to assist displaced residents, and he lent the
weight of his ofi‘ice to support the city's Fair Housing Act. Given the
available funds and a housing shortage, the authority was remark-
ably successful in locating equal or better housing, although, as some
critics charge, the relocation process exacerbated the residential seg-
regation problem. It also increased housing density in the Upper Hill,
adding to the pressures felt by that community.

The criticisms of the arena complex, however, appear well
founded. The auditorium proved unsuitable for its original purpose,
and the Civic Light Opera later abandoned the area. The arena today
serves as the site for professional and college sports events, circuses,
and rock concerts. The Crosstown Boulevard, moreover, isolates the
area from the central business district. Finally, the uncompleted
section above the arena and the high-rise apartment buildings have
created, in effect, a wall between the black community in the Hill
District and the city center. Good intentions, as the project clearly
demonstrates, often produce unexpected and undesirable results.

The Pittsburgh Renaissance, under the leadership of Lawrence,
Mellon, and nearly one hundred other public-spirited citizens, was
one of the nation's most remarkable urban renewal projects. Over a
fifteen-year period, it encompassed more than one thousand acres in
sixteen different projects. Approximately $6 32 million were expended,
with private investments totaling almost $500 million (see Appen-
dix A). The redevelopment, as periodicals heralded throughout the
country, breathed new life into a dying city. In assessing its weak-
nesses and successes, Lawrence himself made the best overall evalua-
tion when he told the Golden Age Association in 1960:

A lot of people say we overemphasized the downtown in
our program. That is not altogether true, but I have no apolo-
gies for what we did in the downtown. We had to save the core
of Pittsburgh before we could do anything else with any mea-
sure of success.

There is today a difference of opinion on this and related
subjects. Many citizens, who only in recent years have devel-
oped an awareness of what has been taking place in Pittsburgh,

276 <1 Don't call me boss

are engaging in the great American game of second guessing.
One school of thought holds that there has been too much em-
phasis on business and industry, . . . and not enough on hous-
ing, mass transit and other human needs. . . .

Whatever the errors, . . . Pittsburgh's public and civic
leadership took the only road open to it in those crucial
postwar years. While most other cities returned to business-as-
usual and did little, Pittsburgh moved ahead as quickly and dar-
ingly as it could with one all consuming objective in mind: To
rescue the city from floods, smoke and blight and thus, to save
jobs by making the community more livable for both industry
and people. Where else could a start be made but in the then
fluttering, economic heart of a metropolitan area of two
million people — downtown?

The community's leadership had no book of rules to follow,
no examples from which to learn. . . . Ioint public and private
action in slum clearance and redevelopment, still untested and
untried, had to be played by trial and error [and] was the only
available method of research — the city itself was the laboratory.“

l 9 4 6 —l 9 5 9
Social Concerns and Other Matters

The business and government collaboration prevailing during the
Lawrence administration produced an impressive set of physical and
environmental changes in Pittsburgh and western Pennsylvania.
Smoke and flood control, the nation's largest urban renewal program,
industrial expansion, creation of several state and local parks, slum
clearance, initial action on the development of a site for the arts and
cultural activities, and an organized litter cleanup campaign all re-
sulted from the existence of ”pro-growth coalitions” present in Ameri-
can cities in the postwar period. 1 The movement began in Pittsburgh
and clearly had its earliest and most spectacular success in the for-
merly ”smoky city.” The historic partnership, however, inevitably
focused upon narrow goals and issues in which both partners had
compatible interests. The concerns of the corporate community in
improving the environment for commercial and industrial activities
remained the prime driving force throughout the Renaissance. The
business leadership reserved the right to make its own corporate de-
cisions on investment in plants and facilities. The Lawrence admin-
istration, for its part, guided by the philosophy that a strong business
environment was essential to the healthy development of the city,
provided the governmental machinery to carry out the redevelopment.

Occasionally, the cooperative renewal process turned to health,
social, and educational matters when individuals, such as Edgar Kauf-
marm, R. K. Mellon, or Iames Hillman, or private foundations de-
veloped an interest in such activities. But these were almost totally
confined to physical and cultural improvements: parks and parklets,
auditoriums for the performing arts, hospital construction, and play-
ground and zoo improvement. The major effort at social engineering-
construction of housing for the poor—became a concern of the pri-

277

278 <1 Don't call me boss

vate sector only when relocation difficulties were dramatized by the
Lower Hill project. The shortage of low- and moderate-income hous-
ing prompted the Allegheny Conference on Community Development
and the Pennsylvania Economy League to recommend the creation
of a voluntary nonprofit agency to assist those displaced.-”~ Action on
the social front occurred only when other matters dictated it.

The absence of broad agreement among the private and public
sector forces on important social concerns left the Lawrence admin-
istration to address them alone, and in doing so Lawrence adopted
his usual pragmatic policy of dealing with immediate concerns. Long-
range comprehensive programs aimed at restructuring society gener-
ated little enthusiasm or thought among his inner circle.

Lawrence's early experience in creating the statewide Little New
Deal was, by his own account, one of the most significant of his en-
tire political career. ”It brought Pennsylvania into the twentieth cen-
tury in terms of labor, education, health, and fair trade practices/'3
Lawrence's campaign of I94 5, however, gave little indication that his
city administration would carry the banner of social reform. His seven-
point program was borrowed from a similar set of goals adopted by
the Allegheny Conference. Specific items in the campaign platform
pledged environmental and physical redevelopment, which Lawrence
was convinced would benefit all social classes. In subsequent cam-
paigns, in which he faced only token opposition from the Republi-
cans, he confined his remarks to an enumeration of the redevelop-
ment projects under way, asking his listeners to return him to office
so ”that we may finish the job.” Social issues, excepting those involv-
ing alleged police corruption, were never a major part of any Law-
rence campaign.

Nevertheless, they were far from unimportant to Lawrence. Re-
peatedly in his thirteen years as mayor, he expressed concern and sup-
ported action regarding a variety of social issues including housing,
race relations, civil liberties, the rights of labor, and educational re-
form. At a different level, support for Israel became a special personal
cause after a trip there. Such efforts added weight to the label civic
statesman, which historians, urban experts, and journalists have at-
tached to Lawrence.

V

When Lawrence took the oath of oflfice in 1946, it was generally
and accurately assumed that he was a marginal friend of the black
community. He had backed issues such as jobs and housing and spon-
sored a small number of capable black candidates such as Paul Iones,

Social Concerns and Other Matters l> 279

the first black on city council, and K. Leroy Irvis, a state represen-
tative. He had also pushed the Equal Rights Bill through the state
legislature in 1935, but he did little to ensure its enforcement by the
attorney general. His education at the hands of Robert Varm had been
enlightening, but he still considered the black community as part of
a larger group of unfortunate poor. Their interests, he believed, would
be best served by a booming economy whether at the local, state, or
national level. He courted and attempted to serve them much as he
did any large bloc of votes. Patronage, economic assistance, and ser-
vices were dispensed at the ward level in return for votes and cam-
paign assistance.4

The issue of race relations in Pittsburgh erupted unexpectedly
during the I945 campaign when several disputes broke out in mixed
white and black neighborhoods. The issues were of little lasting con-
sequence, but they warned of more serious problems beneath the
surface. Lawrence seized the opportunity to add a pledge to his fa-
mous seven points,- if elected, he would create an organization de-
signed to alleviate racial, religious, and ethnic tensions in Pittsburgh.
The promise generated little interest among the press — redevelopment
and an analysis of Lawrence as a boss were more interesting. The
local clergy and black leaders listened, but there is no evidence that
the pledge added much to Lawrence's vote total. Nor was it clear that
he intended to implement it once in office. It appeared lost in the
forest of strikes and redevelopment plans during the early months
of his first term.

The mayor, however, did not forget. Pittsburgh's shortage of ade-
quate housing for middle- and low-income families, discriminatory
hiring practices by the city's five leading department stores, and sim-
mering racial tensions led to a series of discussions in the summer
of 1946. Political, religious, and black leaders agreed that an inter-
denominational, interracial council, patterned after a similar organiza-
tion in Chicago, could serve a positive role in alleviating problems
and reducing tensions. They further agreed that, if it was to be effec-
tive, it should be established as a regular agency of city government.
On 30 November Lawrence asked the city council to establish a
fifteen-member Civic Unity Council. The organization would have
the power to investigate instances of racial or religious discrimina-
tion and to make recommendations for corrective measures. It would
also establish ”programs to promote amicable and co-operative rela-
tions between the various cultural, racial, economic, social and reli-
gious groups so that conditions which cause racial tensions may be
eliminated.” City council hearings brought a flood of support from

Growing Up l> 7

banks, carrying products to the warehouses that lined Front Street.
Horse auctions were held twice weekly during the summer on Front
Street.8

Charles Lawrence, a small, mild-mannered man, worked at a num-
ber of mostly unskilled jobs including hauler and warehouseman.
Known as a hard worker, Charles, like many other blue-collar first-
and second-generation immigrants, looked to the saloon for relaxa-
tion and social interaction. He spent many evenings at a local pub
discussing politics, the labor movement, and working conditions in
America. His ability to speak clear English and his somewhat better
social class origin as the son of a shopkeeper gave him a slightly ele-
vated status in the neighborhood and recognition as a spokesman
for Irish causes in the First Ward. He eventually became involved in
both the labor movement and Democratic politics and was named
ward committeeman in 1897. His activities, however, were minor, as
neither organization exercised any power in late nineteenth-century
Pittsburgh.

Undaunted by the apparent futility of his causes, he loved to
discuss both, and he could become almost eloquent on the evils per-
petrated by the corporate giants of Pittsburgh. His monologues car-
ried into the home, educating the Lawrence boys on the virtues of
organized labor and Democratic politics. It was the only vivid mem-
ory of his father that David Lawrence would carry into later life. ”As
just a bit of a kid in my home they would always discuss politics.
My father was in it in a minor way in the ward . . . and my grand-
father on my mother's side was in it in a minor way . . . he was the
ward assessor and did things of that kind. So as long as I can remem-
ber hearing anything, it would be about politics/'9

Charles Lawrence spent little time at home with his young sons,
but the passion with which he argued his causes left a lasting impres-
sion on his offspring. The eldest son, Isaac, after initially pursuing
a career as a professional baseball player, turned to carpentering and
occasionally held office in his union's local. He later received a
patronage position as superintendent of maintenance for Allegheny
County. His appointment, of course, required active, though minor
involvement in political affairs. The second son, Charles, became a
lifelong champion of organized labor, eventually holding the position
of president of the Pittsburgh plumbers’ union local. David turned
his effort toward politics, and the seeds of much of his later political
philosophy were his father's attitudes toward the prevailing tum-of-
the-century social conditions. In particular, his views regarding the
responsibility of government and big business to correct persisting

280 <1 Don’t call me boss

interested groups. Everyone, it seemed, was in favor of racial and reli-
gious harmony. The bill passed without opposition.5

Lawrence's strong support gave the organization the power of the
mayor's office. While it proved unable to address the root causes of
racial and religious tensions —poverty and discrimination—it attacked
problems as they arose and often proposed acceptable solutions. One
instance was the refusal of the Pittsburgh department stores to hire
blacks as sales personnel. Their employment had been confined to
cleaning and warehouse work. When K. Leroy Irvis, public relations
secretary of the Urban League, threatened to picket the stores, Law-
rence arranged a meeting between Irvis and representatives of the five
stores. The meeting failed, and Irvis called out the pickets. Angered
by the store owners’ reluctance to compromise and what he termed
”the black eye” the city received from the picketing, the mayor in-
tervened, applying continuous pressure to force both sides to continue
negotiations and eventually arranging a meeting of Irvis, the Civic
Unity Council, and Wilmer Iacoby of the Retail Merchants Associa-
tion. The companies agreed to halt their discriminatory hiring. But
they followed the practice, which had become common in the north-
ern United States, of dragging their feet. A report several years later
showed that each company had only a few black salespersons, most
of them part-time. The Civic Unity Council concluded that legisla-
tion was needed to force an end to discriminatory practices in hiring.6

Lawrence agreed to support such legislation but felt that it should
be enacted at the state level. A bill at the local level, his solicitor
Anne Alpem informed him, would probably be ruled unconstitutional
since it interfered wtih the rights of private owners. Such power, when
exercised by local governments, had to be expressly granted by the
state government. When a Fair Employment Practices Bill was intro-
duced in the General Assembly in early 1949, Lawrence promised the
aid of the Democratic members of the Senate Iudiciary Committee
in advancing it to the Senate floor. He pledged that Democratic leg-
islators in both houses would support it, promising ”by our platform
and by personal conviction we are unreservedly committed to the es-
tablishment of a state Fair Employment Practices Commission (FEPC).
Even though this bill is sponsored by the Republicans, we, of course,
will go along.” Unfortunately the overwhelming Republican major-
ity in the committee blocked its own party's bill from reaching the
Senate floor. Lawrence, now committed to a state FEPC, campaigned
across the state. He also began to call for similar legislation in other
states: in an address at the fortieth armual conference of the National
Urban League in Grand Rapids, Michigan, he urged the states to ”live

Social Concerns and Other Matters l> 281

the democracy for which [we are] fighting” by passing fair employ-
ment laws. ”In Civil Rights, the government of this country has an
immediate duty, one which will affect not only our material might
but our moral right as well. No nation committed to freedom, de-
mocracy and liberty as we are, can long fight its enemies without
first living what it is protecting.” A subsequent attempt at passing
a similar state law in 1951, however, also failed to gain the support
of a majority of the Senate Iudiciary Committee.’

When it became evident that a state law would not be forthcom-
ing, Lawrence decided to act. Civic Unity Council members toured
the country in early 19 51 studying similar bills in other cities and then
made recommendations to Lawrence. His legal counsel drafted a bill
that Lawrence announced in August 19 52. Though he suspected that
it would be ruled unconstitutional, he hoped that forcible compli-
ance would not be necessary. The mere threat of force might be
enough. Lawrence conducted a brief investigation of his own, visit-
ing Philadelphia to examine enforcement its recent fair employment
law. His trip convinced him that the issue might never reach the
courts. ”There has been little recourse to arbitrary enforcement/'3

The bill introduced into city council was a sweeping approach
to the problem, prohibiting ”discrimination in employment because
of race, color, religion, ancestry, national origin or place of birth by
employers, employment agencies, labor organizations and others/'9
It prohibited discrimination in promotion, tenure, firing, and salary
decisions in addition to hiring. The bill established a Fair Employ-
ment Practices Commission as a division of the Civic Unity Coun-
cil. At hearings held by city council, more than forty persons repre-
senting church, labor, racial, business, and other groups spoke in favor
of the bill. Only one organization, the Pittsburgh Laymen’s Council,
spoke in opposition, claiming that the proposed commission was a
Communist plot. The council voted to adopt the ordinance by nine
votes to zero. George Culbertson, director of the Civic Unity Coun-
cil, was named director of the FEPC.

Lawrence's gut feeling that the ordinance would not be challenged
in the courts proved correct. During the next several years the com-
mission investigated a number of cases and managed to resolve most
of them amicably. The Civic Unity Council, at the same time, act-
ing on its own and occasionally at the request of the mayor, inves-
tigated other incidents of discrimination. Lawrence extended the in-
fluence of the two organizations in 1955 when he proposed that a
central agency with broader powers be created. The fifteen-member
Commission on Human Relations, as it was to be known, would com-

282 <1 Don't call me boss

bine the functions of the FEPC and the Civic Unity Council but would
also have authority to investigate and act on issues other than job
discrimination. The bill passed in council without opposition, and
the commission began operations in late 1955.

One of Lawrence's final actions as mayor of Pittsburgh was to sign
into law a Fair Housing Bill. Pittsburgh became the second city in
the nation to adopt such a law. An outgrowth of the difficulty in re-
locating blacks from the Lower Hill and other redevelopment proj-
ects, the ordinance prepared at Lawrence's request by the city solicitor
applied to real estate firms, banks and other lending institutions, and
owners of five or more dwelling units. It covered more than two-thirds
of all such sales and rentals in the city. At city council hearings, there
was overwhelming support from religious and fraternal groups, many
black organizations such as the Urban League and NAACP, and a
number of prominent people including the general manager of the
Pittsburgh Pirates, Branch Rickey, and Mrs. Ionas Salk. Only the Pitts-
burgh Board of Realtors expressed strong opposition. The ordinance
became effective on I Iune I9 59, six months after Lawrence's inaugu-
ration as governor.

A second cause that Lawrence adopted during his tenure as mayor
had none of the popular appeal of the fair employment and fair hous-
ing issues and entailed considerable risk to his political career. He
became a frequent defender of the civil liberties of those accused of
Communist activities or sympathies.

Pittsburgh at mid century was a hotbed of anti-Communist ac-
tivity. The well-publicized battle between the leftist United Elec-
trical Workers Union and the mainstream International Union of
Electrical Workers over control of Local 601 at the East Pittsburgh
Westinghouse plant raised the fear of Communist control of the labor
movement in the entire western Pennsylvania area. The International
Union of Electrical Workers —with support from Westinghouse, the
CIO president, Philip Murray, the House Un-American Activities
Committee, and Father Charles Owen Rice—eventually replaced its
rival. Radical elements in the United Steel Workers and United Mine
Workers similarly were purged from positions of responsibility. Fra-
ternal associations, too, came under attack. The Serbian Progressive
Club in nearby Wilmerding was placed in receivership by the courts
for having radical officers. The offices of several foreign language news-
papers suspected of left-wing views by the Pittsburgh Press were
stoned and their printers harassed. The headquarters of one was even-
tually moved to Chicago. Several foreign language radio stations were
forced off the air.”

Social Concerns and Other Matters > 283

Heightening the suspicion and hysteria, an organization known
as Americans Battling Communism began to identify Communists
or ”left-wing sympathizers,” whose names the Pittsburgh newspapers
then published. A number who were immigrants were threatened with
deportation, and many lost their jobs—one source estimated more
than one hundred such firings in Pittsburgh during the era.“

Conditions worsened early in 1950 when Matt Cvetic revealed
his identity as an undercover agent for the FBI and named some three
hundred Communists or sympathizers in his lengthy testimony be-
fore the House Un-American Activities Committee in February. Judge
Michael Musmarmo had perhaps an even greater impact than Cvetic.
Called by one authority the symbolic leader of the Italian-American
community in western Pennsylvania, he had gained considerable
fame as a defense lawyer in many celebrated criminal cases, includ-
ing the Sacco and Vanzetti trial in I927. He wrote of a number of
books, including a highly acclaimed novel, Black Fury, and was the
presiding judge at one of the most important trials at Nuremberg after
World War II. The flamboyant judge was known for his strong anti-
Communist position, which he tried to exploit in an unsuccessful
attempt to win the Democratic nomination for governor of Pennsyl-
vania in 1950. Lawrence blocked his nomination in favor of Mayor
Richardson Dilworth of Philadelphia but, to avoid a costly primary
battle, agreed to accept him as the candidate for lieutenant governor.
Musmarmo, described as ”a Savonarola looking for a crusade” in 1950,
now had a public forum.”

The publicity-seeking Musmanno launched his attack on Com-
munism on 8 March 1950. It was, not coincidentally, less than one
month after Ioseph McCarthy's Wheeling, West Virginia, speech
claiming the presence of ”Communists in high places” had brought
the Wisconsin senator instant media fame. Musmarmo, supplied with
information by Cvetic, refused to seat Alice Roth on the Allegheny
County grand jury. ”Swom evidence has been presented which estab-
lishes to my satisfaction that Miss Alice Roth was and is a commu-
nist. I am satisfied that her surly attitude, her indecorous language,
her disrespectful demeanor and her unwillingness to affirm her devo-
tion to the United States Constitution would not make her a satis-
factory grand juror. She is accordingly dismissed.” His action brought
newspaper articles and several thousand letters, telegrams, and phone
calls of praise and congratulations. When the Pennsylvania Supreme
Court overturned his decision, he responded with a blistering attack
on ”Fifth Columnists in our courthouses/'13

Musmanno stepped up his attack in Iuly by visiting the local Com-

284 <1 Don’t call me boss

munist party headquarters on Grant Street. Accompanied by two de-
tectives, he purchased a number of pieces of literature. Several days
later, on the ”evidence” thus obtained, he called for the imprisonment
or deportation of eleven local Communists, whom he called ”quasi-
Quislings.” Musmanno and Cvetic teamed up to raid the headquar-
ters, confiscating a large quantity of books, pamphlets, and papers.
Steve Nelson, Andrew Onda, and Iames Dolson, all local party lead-
ers, were arrested and tried for sedition. Musmanno again enjoyed
a rush of favorable publicity in the wake of what he called his de-
fense of ”the greatest treasure of our country. Our very liberty.” The
vigorous attacks against the ”Communist threat” by Cvetic and Mus-
manno continued for the next two years. Communists, those alleged
to be Communists or sympathizers or even those defending the ac-
cused, came under attack. ”Our scientists are yet working on further
offensive and defensive weapons. They must be protected at all costs
from Communist infiltration, Communist espionage, Communist
influence and Communist thievery. No sophisticated argumentation,
no high-flown dialectics, no bleating about ‘academic freedom’ and
’witch-hunts’ must allow even the shadow of a Communist to fall
within the confines of the last great chance to save America and the
world of decency, peace and good will to all mankind.”14

It was in the midst of an increasingly fanatical anti-Communist
crusade that Lawrence took what some observers call the most coura-
geous steps in his political career—the defense of several people ac-
cused of Communist activities.

In early 1950, Marjorie Matson, an Allegheny County assistant
district attorney, wrote a letter to the American Civil Liberties Union
protesting MusmaImo’s refusal to seat Roth as a grand juror. ”The ac-
tion . . . comes as a follow-up to a wave of hysteria which has swept
this community as a result of the disclosures made by Matt Cvetic.”
Musmanno responded with a bitter attack on Matson, but the mat-
ter appeared at an end. However, Lawrence's old enemy Charles I.
Margiotti, appointed state attorney general by Republican Governor
Iames Duff, seized the opportunity to embarrass Lawrence by order-
ing an investigation of Matson’s background. On 5 Ianuary 1951 he
sent a lengthy letter to the Allegheny County district attorney, Wil-
liam S. Rahauser demanding that Matson be dismissed ”as it appears
obvious that her Communistic associations render her unfit to hold
this position.” Margiotti itemized six instances of Matson’s alleged
pro-Communist activities.”

Matson responded with a categorical denial that she had ever been
a member or a sympathizer of the Communist party and made a con-

Social Concerns and Other Matters l> 285

vincing point-by-point refutation of Margiotti’s charges. Rahauser re-
fused to dismiss Matson— she was given an unpaid leave of absence —
but did agree to conduct his own investigation. At his request, Iudge
Samuel A. Weiss appointed a five-member panel of attorneys to hear
the charges. Not content with this, Margiotti conducted a newspaper
campaign for the next several weeks, periodically releasing pieces of
”evidence” against Matson. Later, on the eve of the hearing, he an-
nounced that he would not appear before the court-appointed com-
mittee ”because it would create a precedent and lower the dignity
of the office of Attomey-General”, he intended to conduct his own
hearing. But three weeks later, in an unrelated incident, Margiotti
submitted his resignation to the recently elected Republican gover-
nor, Iohn Fine.“

His resignation, however, did not alter the strong anti-Communist
feelings in Pittsburgh or halt the Matson hearings, organized by Iudge
Weiss, which began in September 19 51, one week after Andrew Onda
and Iames Dolson were convicted of sedition. Harry Allan, an attor-
ney and chairman of Americans Battling Communism, represented
the ”prosecution.” In an atmosphere made sensational by detailed ac-
counts in the media, a parade of witnesses, including Matt Cvetic,
testified that Matson was known to be ”sympathetic to the cause.”
Her legal defense of several prominent Communists and a series of
letters to President Truman protesting the New York trial of eleven
top Communists as ”violating their civil rights in a period of hysteria”
were offered as evidence against her. Several witnesses recalled see-
ing her involved in ”corridor conferences” with defense attorney
Hyman Schlesinger during the trial of Nathan Albert, the local Com-
munist party secretary.”

It was in the midst of the hearing that David Lawrence, respond-
ing to a plea from Matson’s husband, decided to testify on her behalf.
He briefly outlined his long acquaintance with Matson, a former
Democratic district committeewoman. When asked about her loy-
alty, the mayor responded, ”I think she's thoroughly American and
a mighty good Democrat. She stands up for the things we are trying
to do. You can't be a Democrat and a Communist. I am an admirer
of her work as a lawyer, a citizen and a Democrat. I'd give her a job,
any job, in the city government.” He then added a comment in de-
fense of Hyman Schlesinger, who had been accused of Communist
activities. As he left the witness stand, Matson’s attorney, Thomas
McBride of Philadelphia, introduced himself to Lawrence. ‘'1 never
met you, Mr. Mayor; I want to shake your hand.” Applause filled the
courtroom.” Several months later the hearing board issued a ruling

286 <1 Don't call me boss

clearing Matson of all charges, permitting her to return to her posi-
tion as assistant district attorney.

The attempts to uncover Communists or their supporters in Pitts-
burgh did not end with the clearing of Matson and the jailing of Steve
Nelson. After a summer in Europe, ”observing the inroads of Commu-
nism,” Michael Musmanno returned with new zeal and renewed en-
ergy. Immediately Cvetic, Musmarmo, and another anti-Communist
judge, Blair Gunther, brought charges of ”subversion and giving aid
and comfort to the enemy” against Roy Harris, a composer-in-residence
at Chatham College. Harris planned to conduct a symphony he had
composed in 1943 and dedicated to the Russian people then suffering
under the German invasion. The Veterans of Foreign Wars and several
other groups announced that they planned to stage a protest at the
performance, and Musmanno demanded that Harris destroy the work
or rededicate it to the ”heroic armed forces of our own United States.”
The mayor's help was enlisted. Lawrence, who did not know Harris,
issued statements supporting him, armounced that he would attend
the concert, and testified on his behalf before the Americanism Com-
mittee of the Allegheny County American Legion. Musmanno and
his colleagues later dropped the charges when it became clear that
public support for their cause was waning.”

In an era when careers were ruined and families destroyed by the
hint of association with Communist party members or those labeled
as sympathizers, Lawrence's willingness to appear in two celebrated
cases illustrates his strong belief in the civil liberties of all. While
the threat to his own career turned out to be minimal, some risk did
exist. The potential costs were unknown at the time. He volunteered
his support because he strongly opposed the demagoguery he found
in the anti-Communist effort. The incidents, moreover, were a re-
minder of his own trials. Individuals whom he believed to be inno-
cent were being attacked in order to further the political aims of the
accusers. Regardless of political or social views, those who, in his eyes,
were wrongly accused, received his support. Several years later he
served as a character witness at the tax evasion trial of a longtime
political opponent, Republican Governor John Fine and testified on
behalf of the Pittsburgh assistant police superintendent, Lawrence
Maloney, at his embezzlement trial.

The courage Lawrence showed by his defense of accused persons
in controversial causes was matched by his efforts to raise new taxes
to continue Pittsburgh's redevelopment program. His effort to impose
a wage tax upon the city in late 19 53 demonstrated his resolve to act

Social Concerns and Other Matters [> 287

in what he deemed the best interests of the city regardless of the po-
litical consequences.

The question of additional revenue was a concern of the admin-
istration almost from the beginning of Lawrence's first term. A deficit
existed when he took over from Scully, and redevelopment, although
much of it was privately financed, placed great burdens on city govem-
ment. However, from the outset, Lawrence made clear his opposi-
tion to either a sales or a wage tax. State law permitted these but
stipulated a flat rate, which Lawrence dubbed a ”soak the poor” tax.

For his first several years as mayor, he maintained an unwaver-
ing opposition, accepting instead state authorization for taxes on
amusements and personal property. In 1949 he refused to support a
wage tax for Allegheny County, in 19 51 he vigorously denied charges
that he intended to impose one on the city; and in 19 52 he reiterated
his position. He apparently felt so strongly that he was willing to
postpone aspects of the redevelopment program to avoid the tax.

It is thus easy to understand why the city was shocked when,
in his budget message to the council in December 1953, Lawrence
hinted that he might reverse his position. The council was not sur-
prised. The tentative 1954 budget had been discussed briefly at sev-
eral Monday caucuses with the mayor's staff, and the possibility of
a deficit—alWays abhorrent to Lawrence—was clear. New revenues
would have to be found to avoid the possibility. It was actually the
finance committee of the council that decided to adopt a Wage tax.
Lawrence received the news in a rather unusual fashion. He and Coun-
cilman Fred Weir were attending a banquet in the William Penn Hotel.
”I went up to the washroom of the seventeenth floor . . . and Law-
rence came in and got into the stall next to me . . . and he whispered,
‘What did you guys do today?’ I said ’We decided on the wage tax,’
and he said, ’Okay.’ That was it. Later he said, ‘Whatever you decide
on I'll back you to the hilt.”’-°-°

Lawrence's presentation to an already committed city council took
the form of an education session for the press and others in atten-
dance. Projecting a budget deficit of nearly six million dollars result-
ing from salary raises and an increase in the size of the police and
fire forces, the mayor analyzed four possibilities: a real estate tax in-
crease, unacceptable because it ”might encourage an exodus to the
suburbs and destroy prospects for continued gains in property values”;
a transfer of the city's water system to an independent authority,
which would probably not raise enough to cover the shortfall; the
refunding of maturing municipal bonds, which he rejected outright

288 <1 Don't call me boss

because ”you can do that just so long before you go stone broke”; and
a wage tax, to which he was still philosophically opposed but which
ought to be considered along with the other alternatives because it
would raise the needed funds. His rather transparent strategy appeared
to be to present four choices, three of which were unacceptable, and
then let the citizens talk themselves into accepting the wage tax. Ac-
cordingly, he requested that the council conduct hearings to deter-
mine the attitude of residents.“

For three days in early December, city council chambers were
the site of heated, often angry presentations to overflow crowds. A
few speakers endorsed the wage tax idea but most attacked it, and
Lawrence as well. Union representatives, in particular, accused the
Democrats of getting elected under false pretenses and of deserting
labor.

Lawrence was silent about the matter until the middle of Decem-
ber, when he made his decision known. ”Pressed by sheer necessity,
Pittsburgh is about to levy an earned income tax which we have fought
off for years. . . .We have simply run out of revenue sources and
nothing else that is not destructive will serve us in our need.” It was
Lawrence's habit not to spend time agonizing over a decision once
it had been made. The wage tax was no exception. Instead he berated
his critics for their shortsightedness. ”Nobody has suggested closing
tuberculosis or polio hospitals or shutting down parks, and no one
has urged that the city stop collecting garbage. . . . Nor has anyone
demanded that city employees be shut off from a cost of living raise
or that the city stop paying wages. But nobody except the mayor and
council has had the elementary courage to advocate any form of taxa-
tion which would accomplish all these things and keep the city sol-
vent. Well, that is what they elected us for and I can assure you to-
night we will not shirk our jobs/'22

The mayor waged an almost solitary fight for the next six weeks
while opposition mounted. Labor unions were the most vociferous,
but many others joined in the battle. Several labor leaders and dissi-
dent Democrats, stating that there was little room left for them in
the party, began talking of forming a third political party in Pitts-
burgh. Republican Congressman Iames Fulton raised the specter of
the ”ripper bill” when he called for replacing the mayor with a city
manager. Citizens wrote to Lawrence and the council threatening to
”bolt” to the Republican party. A number of suburban residents ob-
jected to what they called a commuter tax. ”It’s taxation without rep-
resentation,” one outraged worker wrote. ”And that's tyranny.”23

Perhaps most offensive to Lawrence was the opposition of sev-

Social Concerns and Other Matters [> 289

eral prominent Democrats whom he had helped elect, in particular
William McClel1and, the county coroner, David Roberts, the protho-
notary, and County Commissioner Iohn Kane. Lawrence brused off
the criticism of his fellow Democrats with the terse comment, ”I am
sorry if any of my colleagues in the Democratic Party disagree with
the program which is being advanced to solve the city's financial prob-
lems. However, we have the responsibility of meeting the city's ob-
ligations and they do not/'24

The Pittsburgh newspapers, meanwhile, editorialized against the
tax almost daily. The Pittsburgh Press, always a strong supporter of
the mayor, published six editorials in ten days in December. In early
January it also ran a series of articles entitled ”Where Your Tax Dol-
lar Goes” designed to identify waste in city government. The ”Letters
to the Editor” columns of the three daily papers routinely carried de-
nunciations of the mayor and council.

Lawrence remained on the attack. Campaigning as he normally
would for election, he called press conferences, spoke at meetings and
on radio and television, and invited union officials for private talks
in his office.

On 25 Ianuary 19 54, following a final desperate attempt by labor
groups and a rambling discourse by a prominent Lawrence foe, Mrs.
R. Templeton Smith, the council passed the measure by eight votes
to one. Upon signing the bill, Lawrence again felt compelled to offer
a defense. ”I am under no illusion that we have acted to achieve a
momentary popularity. . . . But I am sure that the council and the
mayor have acted to protect the best interests of Pittsburgh and its
people and that in the end such forthright action is what the citizens
desire from their public officials. The politician with no sense of re-
sponsibility is the worst enemy of democratic government.” His state-
ment repeated the message he had offered again and again during the
six difficult weeks: he asked citizens to join once more in a coopera-
tive rebuilding effort ”to show the whole world how an American
city can find itself and build anew for a better future/'25

Although Lawrence's action had no long-terrn political repercus-
sions, he spent the next several months defending and paying a price
for his decision. Early in February he sent copies of a ten-page radio
address of 27 December to all 2288 Democratic committee members
to help them defend the party against the continued criticism among
their constituencies. One month later, in an obvious snub, Lawrence
was not invited to attend the state CIO conference being held in his
own city. County Commissioner Kane welcomed the delegates. The
mayor was singled out for an explicit attack when the thirty union

8 <1 Don’t call me boss

social ills and to help adjust social class differences became hallmarks
of his political career.

It is Catherine Lawrence, however, who emerges as the dominant
parent in David's life. A devout Catholic, she ran the Lawrence house-
hold with a strong hand. Daily Mass was a regular part of her routine
throughout her life, and she expected her young children to partici-
pate in this normal way of beginning one’s day.” A member of the
altar society of St. Mary's Church, she washed and ironed the altar
garments and spent time almost daily and always on Saturday mom-
ings attending to the routine maintenance of the altar. David fre-
quently accompanied her. Later, when the family moved to the Hill
district, Mrs. Lawrence worked as a volunteer for the Catholic Rosa-
lia Foundling Home and Maternity Hospital. Perhaps because he was
the youngest and as a result of their constant association, he grew
exceptionally close to his mother and remained so until her death
in 1939. Stubborn and outspoken, Catherine maintained discipline
with an iron hand. ”Fighting among the boys was never permitted.
We were always expected to reach a compromise on the disputed
issue/'1 1 Compromise was always preferable to confrontation through-
out Lawrence's political career.

Mrs. Lawrence's outspokenness, in contrast to her husband's dis-
courses on political and labor causes, was almost always confined to
private and family matters. Even in later years she never attempted
to offer political advice to her famous son, but she never hesitated
to remind him that one had a duty to help the less fortunate. For
Lawrence she was the model mother, interested in affairs of the family
and the Church. She wished her children well but never drove them
to succeed, for her own goals in life remained modest. In common
with the Irish community in which she lived, she emphasized em-
ployment for her children over education and expected them to lead
hard-working, moral, blue-collar lives. The drive to be first, present
in so many twentieth-century political leaders, was never a part of
the Lawrence upbringing.

Lawrence's parents, like many blue-collar adults in industrial Pitts-
burgh, struggled to support their offspring, but the children were sel-
dom aware of any serious financial difl-iculties. David wore hand-me-
downs, but they were always kept in excellent repair. Catherine even
managed to save enough money to purchase a second-hand piano, and
she taught each child in turn. David, like most young boys of his age,
preferred to play ball rather than practice the piano. He became what
he later described as a ”piano thumper.” As young boys the Lawrence

29O <1 Don’t call me boss

executives called for his removal as Democratic national commit-
teeman.-°-6 The organization later took its most serious slap at him
when it endorsed McClelland for governor over Lawrence's choice,
George Leader.

Labor unions and other groups continued to attack Lawrence
throughout the summer, and he was not invited to speak for weeks
after he signed the bill. A six—week trip to Europe and the Middle East
came as a welcome relief. By the time he returned in August, much
of the furor had died down and he muted it still further with a re-
quest to the city council to reduce the wage tax from I to o. 5 per-
cent for 19 5 5. The official announcement came less than one month
before the November elections and caused his opponents and the
press to speculate that it was at least partially motivated by political
considerations.

Not all social issues that concerned Lawrence were domestic: one
to which he became committed was the creation and development
of the state of Israel. He first became involved with the Zionist move-
ment in mid 1946 when he was invited to speak at a meeting of 1200
supporters at Carnegie Music Hall. The meeting was arranged by Rabbi
Irving Miller and businessman Alex Lowenthal, chairman of the Pitts-
burgh Zionist Emergency Council, to protest the British govemment’s
policy toward Iews in Palestine and the surviving Jews in Europe.
Lawrence, a featured speaker, earned a rousing ovation when he added
the ”voice of the city” to a resolution of protest to be sent to the Brit-
ish government and to President Truman.”

There is nothing in Lawrence's background to indicate any ear-
lier strong commitment toward the creation of a Iewish homeland.
Rather, it appears that he was acting as a prudent politician, and he
made several similar speeches during the next two years. Two fac-
tors turned his support into fervor, and the cause came as close to
a crusade as any issue excepting the Democratic party and highway
safety, in his entire lifetime.

First, during his early years of speaking on behalf of the creation
of a Iewish state, he was greatly impressed with the dedication and
zeal of the local activists. ”Anyone who works as hard as you people
do deserves the support of all of us. You can't help be successful. If
the Irish worked as hard as you do they would have had their inde-
pendence from the British a long time ago,” Lawrence noted, in a rather
stretched analogy.” Lawrence carried his Iewish-Irish analogy a step
further after trips to both countries, when he frequently contrasted
conditions among Irish-Americans and those he found in Israel.

Second, Lawrence visited Israel in 19 51. David and Alyce were fre-

Social Concerns and Other Matters [> 291

quent travelers to Europe, usually visiting Ireland, England, and sev-
eral countries on the Continent. In 1951, at the urging of Florence
Reizenstein, he included a one-week stay in Israel on his itinerary.
Reizenstein, an important Pittsburgh fund-raiser in the Iewish cause,
had been to Israel several times since its founding. She offered to meet
the Lawrences, act as tour guide, and introduce them to David Ben
Gurion and other leaders. Lawrence spoke glowingly of Israel upon
his return. ”Everybody there seems to be working on the team, work-
ing for the country. The devotion of the people to their nation and
to their aims is something out of this world.” Lawrence thereupon
became even more effective at raising funds for Israel. Zionist activ-
ists never had trouble selling bonds when he spoke.”

Lawrence continued his fund-raising efforts for Israel for the
rest of his life, and he also enlisted the aid of others, including Vice-
President Alben Barkley, and former President Truman. When David
Ben Gurion visited the United States, he included Pittsburgh on
his itinerary. He spoke at a massive Iewish fund-raising rally and,
as a favor to Lawrence, attended a luncheon with local Democratic
officials.

Lawrence's European trips thereafter never failed to include a stop
in Israel, which he visited in 1954, 19 58, and 1962. His five-week trip
in 19 54 was a gift from a group of Pittsburgh Iews in gratitude for his
fund-raising efforts. The log of Lawrence's I9 58 trip suggests that his
feelings for Israel were reciprocated by Israeli officials. During a five-
day period he dined with Prime Minister Ben Gurion, Mayor Gershon
Agron, and Benjamin Mazar, president of Hebrew University, among
others. He attended a Hadassah presentation to Ben Gurion, at which
he was introduced from the podium. At a private meeting, Ben Gurion
impressed Lawrence with his ”wide knowledge of American Affairs.”
The highlight of the trip, however, was the dedication of the David L.
Lawrence Forest at Malikiya, financed by funds raised by Lawrence
and the Pittsburgh United Iewish Appeal. Later, he helped raise funds
to establish a chain of youth centers in Israel, one of which is dedi-
cated to him.3°

Lawrence's work for the cause of Israel did not go unrewarded in
Pittsburgh. The Iewish community consistently voted overwhelm-
ingly Democratic. ”I can only think of one or two Republican Iews,”
Lowenthal noted. ”Leon Falk was one and I think I knew another but
I can't recall his name.” Iews also provided unflagging support follow-
ing the passage of the unpopular city wage tax. ”Our phone stopped
ringing after that,” a member of his staff recalled. ”Except for the Iews.
They kept calling. They stuck by us. Lawrence never forgot that/'31

292 <1 Don’t call me boss

Lawrence's activities involving minority residents, civil liberties,
the wage tax, and Israel demonstrate that he was moved by more than
political concerns. He also played a decisive role in the regulation
of utilities in the state, the development of educational television,
and the mediation of labor-management disputes. He refused to avoid
controversial issues, although they often brought at least temporary
discomfort and some risk to his political career. His ability to grow
while on the job, moreover, became a hallmark of his administration.
He approached new problems and situations in a systematic manner
and more often than not was able to arrive at a reasonable solution
from among the available alternatives. When he was not initially
wholly committed, as in the case of support for Israel, his political
instincts carried him through until he developed his own convictions.
Finally, as was illustrated by the wage tax issue, he was not reluctant
to reverse his position, no matter how strongly he had been commit-
ted to a principle. When conditions dictated a new course of action,
he relied upon higher principles — the greater good of the community-
to set the direction. But the experience taught him a valuable lesson,
which he admitted in 19 57 when his opponent in the mayoralty elec-
tion, Judge John Drew, taunted him about the wage tax issue. ’’In
19 53, I had to change my mind and eat my own words. That was not
pleasant, I assure you. But if I were faced with the alternative of a
personal retreat from a position publicly taken or of leading the city
into disaster . . . I would make the same choice again. But, I would
give a friendly warning to all young men embarking on a political
career to be more mindful of the uncertain future than I was in this
case.”32

1946-1959
A Bit of Tarnish:

Graft and Corruption

David Lawrence's impatience with details served him well in the
redevelopment process. He relied upon technical experts and expected
them to accomplish the objectives that had been established by the
administration in cooperation with the private sector leadership. The
technical corps, in turn, appreciated the freedom to operate in an en-
vironment free of politics or bureaucratic meddling. When political
decisions were required to smooth the path toward an objective, they
knew the mayor would act decisively and quickly. They also knew
that he would not permit the redevelopment projects to become glut-
ted with patronage employees. Each project director and the heads
of the authorities exercised full control over hiring and firing. The
city ultimately benefited from the efforts of a large number of tal-
ented individuals who joined together in the exciting work of rebuild-
ing the city.

The mayor's habit of delegating responsibility and the structure
of the political organization he had created did not lead to the same
fortunate results in the public service sector of the administration.
Scandals and corruption involving various city services, law enforce-
ment, and public works agencies tarnished his administration from
the beginning. Although he consistently condemned such activities
and was never personally implicated, he was never able to rid the ad-
ministration of this unsavory element. When he became aware of
wrongdoing, he was often reluctant to take corrective action. If he
did so, intraparty battles would inevitably erupt that would hinder
the completion of his urban renewal mission. Consequently he acted
only when developing scandals demanded an immediate and certain
response. Thus the city's most powerful politician proved incapable
of ridding his administration of its most persistent problem.

293

294 <1 Don’t call me boss

The tradition of corruption was deeply embedded in Pittsburgh's
political history. From the tum-of-the-century Flinn-Magee machine
to the Lawrence administration, city government had seldom been
free of scandal—kickbacks, influence peddling, protection rackets,
vice operations, and jury tarnpering—despite occasional reform move-
ments.1 In the mid 1930s, the Democratic party, in need of experi-
enced ward workers and influential neighborhood residents, welcomed
new recruits who switched parties, and it asked few questions about
their private activities or their associates. Lawrence, in his attempt
to strengthen the organization following the abrupt resignation of
McNair, vested additional power in the ward chairmen, permitting
them considerable control over local patronage.

V

The Scully administration, the first one over which Lawrence ex-
ercised considerable control, encountered only one major scandal.
Several investigative reports by Ray Sprigle of the Pittsburgh Post-
Gazette indicated that illegal gambling, numbers establishments, and
prostitution operated on the streets of the city with relatively little
interference from the police. There were nearly one thousand police
olficers in the city but more than five thousand people writing num-
bers. Few of the latter made much money, Sprigle wrote, because of
the high cost of police protection. A policeman identified for Sprigle
one of the beneficial side effects of the illegal operation. ”When are
you guys going to lay off the numbers racket? It's the lesser of two
evils. If this numbers racket is put out of business, it will mean a
lot more work for the police and the courts. And it's going to cause
a lot of trouble for businessmen and citizens. . . . I'm talking about
the leaders of this racket. . . . They used to be in the bootleg racket.
Before that in better times they were petty thieves and at election
time they would crook the ballot boxes. You let the numbers rackets
go out of business and all those yeggs are going back into larceny/'2

The long history of corrupt practices in Pittsburgh could be elimi-
nated only by an administrator who made the effort a major priority
of his term of office. Lawrence, however, had set other priorities.
Even the social concerns that occupied a great deal of his time paled
in significance to the task of rebuilding the city. What he considered
minor corruption was simply a distasteful but unavoidable cost of
running the city. ”Lawrence was never puritanical about what you
might call police corruption,” Iack Robin explained. ”He regarded that
as a fact of life. What the hell can you do about it anyhow? And, if
the ward leaders, and the aldermen, and the police inspectors were

A Bit of Tamish l> 295

doing this or that in relation to gambling etc., he wasn't going to run
around chasing them to uncover corruption. . . . If you're discreet and
keep out of trouble, whatever you do, that's your business. . . . He
never worried if anybody in the Police Department or the Democratic
organization had whatever arrangements they made to anybody who
could contribute to their welfare/'3 Lawrence's attitude and the
priorities of the Renaissance made corruption in his administration
almost inevitable. His occasional efforts at reform almost always oc-
curred in the wake of a sensational scandal or violent crime. When
public concern died down, it was ”business as usual.”

The first hint of corruption came a few months after his inaugu-
ration in I946. Two small-time numbers operators, Frank Evans and
Freddie Garrow, were murdered in a gangland style slaying. It was
the third such incident since the beginning of the year. The other
victims were also involved in numbers, and one, Gus Gianni, had
recently lost a close race for First Ward alderman. All four crimes,
Police Superintendent Harvey Scott concluded, were part of a num-
bers war for control of the East Liberty neighborhood. Lawrence re-
sponded to the news by ”declaring war on the racketeers. We will not
rest until the city is cleared of these rats.” Under orders from the
mayor, Scott led a series of raids, in which only one prominent op-
erator, ”Pittsburgh Hymie” Martin, and seventy-three small fry were
caught. The police conducted several more raids in the following
weeks, but their efforts continued to produce petty gamblers and num-
bers players, all of whom were eventually released or given small fines
by the courts. The raided betting shops reopened or moved to new
addresses within weeks.

The concern over vice in Pittsburgh and corruption among the
police subsided during the next few months as Lawrence battled to
bring a resolution to the Duquesne Light and Power Company strike.
An occasional raid resulted in a few arrests, but the concerted effort
to rid the city of rackets, which Lawrence had promised during the
summer, never materialized. He apparently had no serious intention
of disturbing the accommodation that existed between the police and
the gambling establishment.

But Lawrence had reckoned without one of the few Republicans
in office, the district attorney for Allegheny County, Artemas C. Les-
lie, who had been appointed in 1945 by a mainly Republican Court
of Common Pleas to fill a vacancy. The son of a former Republican
boss, Max Leslie, he created his own raiding squad of county detec-
tives. In a deliberate attempt to embarrass the Democratic adminis-
tration, he ordered a series of raids on known city establishments.

296 <1 Don't call me boss

One in particular, the Enright Smoke Shop, was only one hundred
yards from the East Liberty police station. County detectives seized
dice tables and other gambling paraphernalia. Leslie, who faced a re-
election race in the fall of 1947, ordered raids sporadically during the
spring of that year, thus keeping himself and the gambling issue in
the news headlines. In May 1947 he wrote to the mayor informing
him of the presence of nineteen gambling establishments within the
city limits and brazenly calling upon him to submit ”a written report
of the action taken by you and your police department.” Leslie re-
leased the letter to the press.4

Lawrence referred the letter to Superintendent Scott, who ordered
simultaneous raids on all the establishments. Only seven arrests
were made. Pittsburgh Press police reporters noted that ”more per-
sons would have been arrested if there hadn't been a leak, either from
the Police Department or the District Attomey’s office.” At a news
conference, Lawrence bristled at the suggestion that police knew about
the establishments but refused to act. ”When such places come under
the notice of the police, they close them up,” he snapped.5

It was clear to Lawrence that the district attorney was in a posi-
tion to embarrass the Democratic administration. Leslie would, no
doubt, step up his campaign against the rackets and dishonest police
as the November election neared. Lawrence would be blamed for both,
and the district attorney would rely on the argument that a Republi-
can law enforcement officer was needed to fight corruption. Leslie
would have to be replaced. Earlier in the year, Lawrence had named
William Rahauser, an old-line Democratic worker and former state
senator, as his candidate to oppose Leslie. Rahauser, although one
of Lawrence's best candidate choices, began the campaign at a dis-
advantage: his ties to the party marked him as a Lawrence man, and
he could hardly sell himself as a crusader against ”crime within the
administration.”

Lawrence attempted to even the score by defusing the rackets
issue. He would create his own racket-busting squad. Unlike precinct
police, who could operate only within their own district, his new team
had authority to strike anywhere in the city. Lawrence's choice to
head the squad was a short, stocky police lieutenant, Lawrence Ma-
loney. A seven-year veteran of the force, Maloney had previously
worked for the city as a janitor, fireman, and sanitary inspector. He
was also Democratic committeeman in the Tenth Ward. Maloney’s
Marauders, as the press quickly dubbed the squad of six plainclothes
oflicers, roamed the city raiding gambling, prostitution, and other vice
establishments at will. They were often followed by newspaper pho-

A Bit of Tamish l> 297

tographers and reporters who recorded each raid in detail. Maloney
became an instant celebrity, and the public was informed that the
administration was striking back at vice.

Lawrence meanwhile conducted a vigorous campaign on behalf
of Rahauser. He spoke nightly and canvassed a number of the promi-
nent residents who had backed him in 1945 to elicit their support.
Businessmen’s and lawyers’ groups for Rahauser were formed at his
request. He ordered party officials to go all out to elect Rahauser and
threatened that if they did not, they would ”suffer the consequences,”
that is, lose patronage rights.6

It is diflicult to determine whether Lawrence's creation of the
Maloney force or his orders to the party regulars had any impact on
the election itself. The Democratic party won its most impressive
victory of the century, sweeping all contested offices by huge majori-
ties. Rahauser led the ticket by an impressive number of votes in a
landslide over Leslie.7 The district attomey’s office was safely under
control.

The new year brought several mild attempts by Lawrence to con-
trol vice, but at the same time he bypassed a major opportunity to
remove the detective corps from politics when, under pressure from
the ward chairmen, he opposed a proposed state law that would have
placed detectives and inspectors under civil service protection. He
offered a lame explanation for his opposition: ”You must have differ-
ent types of people for different types of work. Suppose you want some-
one to speak a foreign language. You would have to set up a different
type of test. We need a number of detectives who speak foreign lan-
guages.” (Pittsburgh had, at this time, less than 5 percent of its popu-
lation who spoke foreign languages exclusively.) Under pressure from
the ward chairman, Lawrence was unwilling to support the type of
refonn which would grant the police force political independence.

Conditions deteriorated during 1948. An editorial in the Pittsburgh
Press noted that ”gambling joints, all-night liquor clubs and similar
dives practically run wide open. . . . And the numbers racketeers are
getting bolder all the time. They are so rich and powerful, so gener-
ally immune from police harassment, it seems that the small squad
headed by Mr. Maloney hardly makes a dent in the industry.” Several
months later, Al Florig, a private detective and former police oflcicer,
sent a letter to the mayor, city council, and the press charging that
organized crime was operating openly in Pittsburgh under ”police and
political protection.” He indicated, as an example, that he had infor-
mation from an anonymous witness about ”high stakes gambling at
the American Hunting and Fishing Club in East Liberty/'8

298 <1 Don’t call me boss

Lawrence initially tried to ignore Florig’s charges, attributing them
to the overactive imagination of a disgruntled former employee. How-
ever, he called several high-level meetings with Rahauser, Alpem,
Scott, and others. He suggested that Florig had been fired from both
the city and county law enforcement departments and that no one
would pay attention to him. Rahauser and Alpem countered that re-
gardless of Florig’s credibility, others would use the issue of corrup-
tion to attack the Democratic administration. It was time to attack
the issue head on. The mayor eventually agreed and on 24 Iuly an-
nounced to the press that he was asking Rahauser to convene a grand
jury with broad investigative powers to examine two major issues:
the extent of gambling and other illegal vices in the city; and the ex-
tent to which crime and vice were protected by the police or politi-
cians. The district attorney was to ”do everything in the power of his
offices to expedite a Grand jury inquiry which will determine the truth
or falsity of certain accusations made in regard to law enforcement
in the city.” Lawrence added, ”These accusations come from a source
whose past record does not vouch for his responsibility/'9

The grand jury of nine men and nine women convened on 7 Au-
gust 1948 and remained in session until the last day of September.
It heard 238 witnesses in all and documented that several dozen fled
the city to avoid subpoenas to testify. Among those who did appear
were Superintendent Harvey Scott, Councilman Ioe McArdle, more
than forty policemen, the editors of all three Pittsburgh newspapers,
and several hundred individuals known to operate or frequent gam-
bling establishments. Principal witnesses were Florig, who testified
twice, Sam and Tony Grosso, who were at the start of their careers
as numbers kings of western Pennsylvania, and Lawrence himself.

The grand jury had no difficulty in establishing the presence of
a wide-open gambling operation in the city. Singled out as major opera-
tions were thirteen clubs, including seven in East Liberty. Others were
located in the business district, on the North Side, and in Oakland.
Horse rooms and gambling casinos, operated by front men who held
legitimate business licenses, were identified all over the city. The real
owners of these establishments had been a carefully guarded secret.
The jury also uncovered numerous after-hours clubs offering gam-
bling and illegal slot machines. A downtown hotel, the Fort Pitt, was
singled out as the site of ”two of the largest horse rooms in Western
Pennsylvania operating for a number of years unmolested by the hotel
detective or any of the hotel officials or employees,” an operation
linked to a multimillion-dollar betting syndicate in Yonkers, New
York. Sixty-six persons were recommended for indictment, a list, as

A Bit of Tamish l> 299

one newspaper put it, that was the ”Who’s Who in the gambling world.”
It included Sam and Tony Grosso, Tom and Vincent Prezioso (alias
Christy); casino operator George Quinlan, a one—time partner in sports-
man’s Iames Rooney's slot machine company; and William ”Woogie”
Harris, credited with bringing the numbers operation to Pittsburg .10

The grand jury questioned more than fifty people to determine
whether a link existed between the rackets and the police or politi-
cians. Florig testified that ”racketeers, in order to operate, must kick
in to the Democratic slush fund. If they don't, they can't operate be-
cause police would close them down within an hour.” Cutting a wide
swath with his accusations, he stated, ”Organized crime cannot op-
erate in the city without an okay from the mayor down through his
official family to the cop on the beat.” Lawrence, who appeared sev-
eral days after Florig, disputed all the accusations. He called for any-
one with evidence of wrongdoing by the police or anyone in the ad-
ministration to present it to the authorities.“

The grand jury concluded that Florig had invented his ”mystery
informer.” ”No such person existed,” they noted. Nor was any ”evi-
dence produced that would indicate that there was any organized pro-
tection of the gambling rackets either by the police or the politicians.”
However, the police department was not completely exonerated. The
grand jury cited numerous sections of the city where gambling and
vice operated without interference from the law. ”Whether this was
due to any corrupt motive . . . or to an utter lack of interest on the
part of the police for the suppression of this type of crime, we have
been unable to determine.” The East Liberty district, headed by in-
spector Iohn Dean, was singled out as the most lax in the city; the
central city, the North and South sides, Hazelwood, and several other
districts were criticized for the do-nothing attitude of the police ; and
other districts were cited and inspectors named where police were
either corrupt or incompetent.”

The report also criticized the relationship between the police and
the Democratic party, citing the case of a police inspector who also
served as a ward chairman and as a constable in the district to which
he was assigned. Other inspectors and police served as district com-
mitteemen in their assigned districts, and one was a member of the
state legislature. Somewhat ironically in view of his later indictments,
Lieutenant Maloney and his band of ”marauders” were praised by the
grand jury, which recommended that the squad be continued and in-
creased in number.

Lawrence, his safety director, James Fairley, Scott, and the mem-
bers of the mayor's inner cabinet deliberated only five days before

Growing Up l> 9

children worked sporadically but were not required to turn their
meager earnings over to their parents.

David, despite poor eyesight, which bothered him for life, played
sandlot baseball, fished, and swam in the waters at the Point. He and
his companions particularly enjoyed swimming out to meet passing
stem-wheelers to ”ride the wake” back in toward shore. Unlike his
older brother Isaac, he never excelled at sports, but he was remem-
bered as a fierce competitor. He developed an intense love for sports
of all kinds and later, during the 1920s, sponsored and managed semi-
professional football, baseball, and basketball teams and a stable of
professional boxers, including three who gained some local renown:
Kid Dugan, Patsy Scanlon, and Pete Connors, who once earned a
purse of $350 fighting in Pittsburgh's Duquesne Gardens.” As a
youth Lawrence especially enjoyed exploring the industrial sites and
railroad yards near his home, and the historic blockhouse was a fa-
vorite place for him and his friends. ”We kids used to play in there
and around there. I remember one time an old lady named Powers
moved in there and squatted, opened up a candy store and lived
there/'13 Lawrence in later years frequently recalled with fondness
his early days at the Point, and its redevelopment became a particu-
lar source of pride.

David's formal education consisted of primary schooling at Du-
quesne Public Elementary School and a two-year commercial course
at St. Mary’s. He later cited insufficient funds as the reason for ter-
minating his education at this point, but this appears to have been
only one factor. Few children in working-class Pittsburgh attended
school beyond the tenth grade. Young David was different from most
in that his education enabled him to secure a white-collar job upon
graduation.

His limited education, however, was a source of concern, even
embarrassment, throughout his life. ”I was no boy wonder in educa-
tion,” he recalled half a century later. ”It was always a struggle for
me/'14 In his early years he remained attached to one of his former
teachers, Sister Casimir, who possessed many of the qualities he ad-
mired in his mother—a strong will, outspokenness, and a belief in
rigid discipline. She frequently sent him material to read in later years
and never hesitated to write him expressing her opinions of his po-
litical actions. 15 Later in his career, Lawrence would attribute strong,
almost unnatural powers to formal education, driving himself con-
tinuously as if to overcome this self-determined deficiency. His po-
litical appointments were nearly always highly educated men and

300 <1 Don’t call me boss

arriving at a plan to implement the recommendations of the grand
jury. Lawrence's statement carefully responded only to the specific
charges. Two high-ranking police officers, Iohn Dean and William
Sullivan, were suspended with a request that they resign, and a third,
also suspended, resigned three days later. Others singled out for
criticism received only a reprimand from Superintendent Scott.
Lawrence announced the continuation of the Maloney squad, to be
”reinforced with such added personnel as it needs to do a thorough
job.” Five men were added on 15 October.”

In response to the criticism that many policemen had been as-
signed to the same beats for years and had become well acquainted
with the racketeers, the mayor ordered that all inspectors and lieu-
tenants be transferred every six months. Finally he banned police
officers from holding political oflice in the district to which they were
assigned. Lawrence's statement also noted his pleasure that the
charges of protection of gambling rackets by police and politicians
”proved untrue,” since the grand jury had found no evidence to sup-
port them. He also praised what the grand jury called the police bu-
reau’s ”excellent record in cleaning up crimes of violence.”14

The measures Lawrence took fell far short of the needed reform
of the police bureau. The relationship between the police and ward-
level politics remained the heart of the problem. Unwilling to anger
ward politicians, who formed the foundation of the Democratic or-
ganization, the mayor left untouched the hiring and promotion poli-
cies that vested authority at the local level.15 Lawrence's "reform” also
permitted the continued participation by law enforcement officials
in political activities. His ban applied only to political office in one’s
own working district. Moreover, officers were still permitted to work
for candidates for government or party offices in any district in the
city. Indeed, the party continued to expect police officers to work on
its behalf in each campaign, and ward chainnen expected a similar
service from those officers they sponsored for employment. The new
regulations also permitted police officers to run for election for ward-
level constable or magistrate positions. In addition, these positions
remained in the control of ward of-Hcia1s.16

Lawrence's halfhearted attempt at reform promised no further in-
vestigation of the police force, nor did he suggest raising salaries to
make beat policemen less susceptible to bribes or protection money.
Further, he steadfastly refused to fire Harvey Scott, who had served
as police superintendent since 1939, in spite of strong advice to do
so by several members of his executive staff.

It is tempting to perceive a direct relationship between Lawrence's

A Bit of Tamish l> 301

failure to act on the issue of police involvement in politics and the
upcoming mayoralty campaign. He certainly did not wish to risk
the enmity of many of the party's best workers immediately before
a possibly difficult primary battle. Eddie Leonard had already begun
hinting that he might be a candidate. With hindsight, its seems the
prudent move would have been decisive action to sever the police-
politician connection, which was under heavy criticism from the
media, prominent citizens, and Lawrence's Republican opponents.
Leonard, as it turned out, never mentioned the issue. But the Repub-
lican candidate, Tice Ryan, put up nearly one hundred advertising
billboards showing a huge pair of clutching hands reaching after a
small child on the street and with the caption ”Make our Homes and
Streets Safe! —Vote Republican.” Ryan emphasized the theme of police
corruption and public safety in his addresses throughout the campaign.

In refusing to carry out the police-politics separation, Lawrence
opted to follow a principle he had held since his early days in poli-
tics: loyalty was a paramount virtue worthy of reciprocation. The ward
politicians and the police, regardless of corruption, served the party
faithfully, many for nearly two decades. Lawrence feared that he would
lose his political base if he abandoned them. In this regard, while he
emerged as a modern municipal leader in the city's rebuilding pro-
cess, he remained a nineteenth-century political boss. Neighborhood-
level politics formed the basis of the system, and it had to be pre-
served. The district and ward politicians could not be expected to put
forth a sustained effort merely to see their man elected. Rewards, in
terms of patronage and some amount of power, remained unavoid-
able. The ”booty” the party workers received was simply part of the
political cost of running a municipality. Lawrence, to his credit, hoped
to minimize it as much as possible.

An article in the Pittsburgh Press of 5 June I949 provided evi-
dence that the grand jury and the subsequent ”Lawrence reforms” had
been a classic exercise in futility. ”The special Grand Iury carried
a ’big stick’ when it investigated the rackets eight months ago, but
since then the courts and the police have been ’speaking softly’ to
the racketeers.

Only one of the 65 [sic] persons indicted as a result of the
probe went to jail. He got an eight months sentence but served
only 2. 5 months getting an ‘Easter parole’ on April 14.

Today the numbers arrests have fallen off almost to a van-
ishing point. But anyone who thinks the racketeers are out of
the numbers business doesn't know the facts of life. Many of

302 <1 Don't call me boss

the old numbers stores closed when the Grand Iury and Malo-
ney’s Marauders were generating the heat last year are open
again. And new ones have been added to take care of the trade.

Thirty-three of those indicted either were found guilty or so pleaded
but received only light fines averaging less than $300. Only one of
the offending gambling clubs remained closed.

The mayor's satisfaction over the competence of the police force
in dealing with crimes of violence also turned to ashes. In the year
following the grand jury hearing, several unsolved murders raised ques-
tions about the ability of the department to deal with homicides, quite
apart from vice and gambling. The police appeared particularly inept
in the case of the rape-murder of a prominent Shadyside woman.”
At approximately 11:15 P.M. on 25 November 1949, Jean Brusco was
beaten with a beer bottle and dragged to a nearby alley, where she
was raped and brutally murdered. A milkman found the body at 8:00
A.M. the next day in the back yard of an apartment house, approxi-
mately two hundard yards from her home. Parts of her torn clothing
were scattered about the yard. Events that occurred in the nine-hour
interim further besmirched the already tarnished reputation of the
police bureau.

The initial attack on Miss Brusco occurred under a street light
in full view of Mrs. Ellen Flarmigan from her third-floor apartment
on Howe Street. Mrs. Flarmigan immediately called the East Liberty
police station, located a few blocks away. The police did not appear
on the scene until one hour later. When they did respond, it was to
the wrong house. Following what was later described as a thorough
search of the area, the police concluded that the victim had been kid-
napped. A general alarm giving the description of Miss Brusco and
her assailant was issued at 1:50 A.M., a full two and one-half hours
after the attack. Police on the scene continued their search until 5:00
A.M. but were unable to locate a body.

Stung by press reports of police bungling and complaints from
Shadyside residents, the mayor demanded an immediate report from
Superintendent Scott. The report, however, left unanswered the cru-
cial questions about the delays, errors, and failures. It also conflicted
on a number of important details with a report in the Pittsburgh Press
that was based on its own inquiries among residents of the area.

Thoroughly armoyed by the superintendent's report, Lawrence or-
dered an immediate police board of inquiry. To calm the public’s fears,
made emphatic by the flood of phone calls and letters to the mayor's
office, he simultaneously promised to add Ioo more policemen to the

A Bit of Tamish I> 303

force of 1125. On his order to revise assignments so that a maximum
number of men were on night duty, Scott created a night force of 402
beat patrolmen and a daytime shift of 92.

The police inquiry, conducted by Louis Rosenberg, the assistant
city solicitor, revealed numerous police errors, inaccuracies in the
reports submitted to the superintendent, and a general slovenly at-
titude. The sergeant in charge, for example, testified that he realized
that he had given the investigating squad the wrong address, but he
was being relieved from duty at the time. In reply to Rosenberg’s ques-
tioning, he could give no reason for his failure to rectify or report his
mistake other than ”I don't know” and ”I didn't give it a thought.” The
policy board of inquiry, agreeing that the case had been bungled, rec-
ommended that the seven policemen involved in the episode face a
hearing on charges of neglect of duty.

Lawrence, not willing to wait for the results of the hearing, re-
moved the velvet gloves with which he had handled the police bureau.
On 13, I4, and 16 December, he called in senior officers, beginning at
the top with a meeting with Scott, Fairley, the assistant superinten-
dent, Andrew Charles, and eight inspectors. When the meeting con-
cluded, ”eleven men with red faces filed from the office.” One was
heard to remark, ”He means business, doesn't he?” ”The biggest trou-
ble with the police department is the failure to enforce discipline—
handing out cream puff penalties to subordinates who should be fired
or suspended,” Lawrence said afterward. He delivered the same mes-
sage at the other two meetings, one with thirty—five lieutenants and
one with nearly one hundred precinct sergeants and detectives. Refer-
ring to charges of political influence in the department raised several
days earlier at a city council meeting by Mrs. R. Templeton Smith,
Lawrence told them, ”Political influence is out the window. The only
measure we will recognize in the future is the ability to do the job.”

Once again Lawrence's lectures had minimal effect on police be-
havior. Reprirnands, cajoling, and threats brought only short-term re-
sults. Members of the bureau concluded that the mayor was unwill-
ing to carry out his threats. Although seven officers were found guilty
of the neglect charges and one was found guilty of incompetence,
only one, a sixty-five-year-old officer, was instructed to retire while
the others were fined fifty dollars each. None received suspensions
or demotions.

It was almost inevitable that Ray Sprigle would follow the grand
jury hearing and the inquiry into the Brusco fiasco with an investiga-
tion of his own. Sprigle, a tough-talking police reporter, often be-
came news himself because of his Runyonesque appearance and the

304 <1 Don't call me boss

accuracy of his revelations. An ever present comcob pipe jutting from
the comer of his mouth and a Stetson pushed to the back of his
head, Sprigle was a recognized figure in Pittsburgh ”gaming circles.”
He built his reputation on a 1926 expose of racket conditions in vari-
ous sections of the city and a series in 1931 that helped convict Mayor
Kline on illegal contract charges. A third series in 1936 charged that
numbers operators paid 60 percent of their gross income in bribes
to police and politicians. ”You'll take care of the constable of the
ward in which your headquarters are. You'll sweeten a couple of
deputy constables, too. You'll take care of the alderman. If your writ-
ers operate in other wards, you'll take care of the aldennen, constables
and deputies there. You'll take care of the police inspectors in every
district in which you operate and the lieutenants too— if they're that
kind of inspectors—and too often they are. You'll take care of any-
where from one to fifty policemen in the neighborhoods where busi-
ness is best and you have a crew of writers working. If there are any
plainclothesmen on the numbers detail, you'll sweeten them too."
At election times, ”the operator has to kick in campaign funds, until
both you and your roll are dizzy . . . and when you mean campaign
funds you mean everyone that might be running from constable to
President/'13

Sprigle’s fourth series, entitled "Inside the Rackets,” began on 20
February 1950, approximately eighteen months after the grand jury
investigation. His reports demonstrated that nothing had changed.
"Comparing Pittsburgh's Police Bureau with those in Columbus, Mil-
waukee, and St. Louis results in a damning indictment of the admin-
istration and of law and order in our city. The problem is politics/'19

Sprigle may have slightly overstated the case, as he often did, but
his evidence of a police-politics liaison proved more accurate than
the clean bill of health provided by the 1948 grand jury hearing. Of
Io inspectors, the level immediately below the superintendent, only
3 had worked their way up through the ranks. Two held ward chair-
manships and received their positions after their districts turned in
consistently high majorities for the party; I (Maloney) served as dis-
trict committeeman; others owed their appointments directly to ward
chairmen; I owed his to the intervention of County Chairman Iohn
Kane. Political influence was even more apparent at the detective
level, where only 7 of 37 had worked their way up. Former occupa-
tions included sidewalk pitchman, prison guard, Pennsylvania Sta-
tion redcap, boxer, truck driver, barber, and hotel clerk. The last of
these was the brother of Inspector Frank Ferris, who was also Twenty-
fifth Ward chairman. Detectives were also active in politics, serving

A Bit of Tamish l> 305

as ward chairmen (2), district committeemen (II), constable (4), and
alderman (2). A number of beat-level policemen evidently learned
that promotions came to those with political ties: 47 of 705 surveyed
by Sprigle also served as Democratic committeemen in their home
districts.

The crusading reporter then attempted, although with much more
speculative ”evidence,” to tie the police-politics arrangement to the
rackets still rampant in the city. ”Racket bosses elect and finance
alderrnen and constables. The ward chainnen then maintain and pro-
tect the operation of the racket bosses in their wards through control
of the police department and police inspectors.” Even the popular ”ma-
rauder,” Maloney, was accused of selecting the site of his raids by
political considerations; most of the raids netted only small fry, and
few convictions resulted, in spite of the publicity. For all the impres-
sive number of arrests, most pleaded guilty and paid small fines,-
only half a dozen actually went to jail.

The fourteenth and last article in Sprigle’s series placed respon-
sibility for the sorry condition of the police bureau squarely on the
mayor's shoulders. ”For half a century, politics has always kept a
dirty finger in the operation of Pittsburgh's police system,” and Law-
rence ”brought it to a perfection it had never known before.” ”The
absolute political master of his own party,” only he could reform and
rehabilitate the police system.

Encouraged by the Sprigle series, several church and women's
groups and a Shadyside Citizens’ Committee demanded action on the
still unsolved Brusco case. They echoed the reporter in urging the
mayor to take the police department out of politics. The Shadyside
group also asked for the resignation of Superintendent Scott.

Pressed by the constant criticism and the growing problems
within the bureau, Lawrence was forced to abandon his protection
of political policemen. On 20 March 1950 the council, at the mayor's
request, passed a measure that prohibited police officers from hold-
ing office or participating as campaign managers or directors in elec-
tions. Nothing, of course, prevented them from being active behind
the scenes. In 19 53, for example, eight policemen contributed $350 or
more to support the Democratic candidates. A number of others con-
tributed smaller amounts and still more worked on behalf of the or-
ganization candidate. A 1972 study of staffing policies revealed that
many continued to benefit from political activities and friendships.”

While Lawrence had some success in removing politics from the
police bureau, events during the next seven years show his inability
to gain control over it. Two months after the Sprigle series, a state

306 <1 Don't call me boss

police raid on a Hill District gambling spot produced a small, brown
notebook belonging to Willie ”Little Brother” Iones, which contained
penciled records of those bribed and the amounts they received. One
week's entries ran, in part, ”Anabel $45; cops $406; cops $6; cops $2;
Lt. $5; No. 2 car $4; Dot $10; Lt. $25.” Another entry was ’“Pap’ $25”;
Fifth Ward chairman and magistrate ”Pappy” Williams denied that
it referred to him. On the same day, Superintendent Scott released
results of an ongoing investigation within the department of officers
receiving unauthorized sick pay. It involved at least twenty-five mem-
bers, and preliminary evidence indicated that some had received as
much as $800. The offenders were eventually ordered to repay all
funds not due them, and several drew suspensions.“

The scandalous behavior within the bureau reached its peak on
22 Iune when Scott appeared at a grand jury hearing intoxicated. Iudge
Sara Soffel refused to permit him to testify, cited him for contempt
of court, and ordered him to reappear the following week in ”a state
of sobriety.” When aides reached Lawrence, who was in Ireland on
vacation, he exploded. ”I’m tired of these damn problems with the
police,” he shouted into the phone. ”Suspend him. Get him out of
there.” Lawrence, however, could not bring himself to fire the man
who had been a loyal follower. In spite of his obvious inadequacies
and the opportunity he presented for a change in the police leader-
ship, Lawrence relented and gave him a second chance: a six-week
suspension and an official reprimand. It should be pointed out that
Scott had strong backing from the AFL Central Labor Union, a group
that Lawrence had been avidly courting since its defection to the
Eddie Leonard camp in the previous mayoralty election.”

Scott was reinstated on 5 August, but he sealed his fate the fol-
lowing year when he became involved in a brawl with several patrons,
the female proprietor, and a policeman in an East Liberty restaurant.
Lawrence finally gave the dismissal order. ”Scott saved our ass by get-
ting drunk, then brawling in public,” said Walter Giesey, the mayor's
executive secretary. ”We could fire him.” Scott's behavior had made
it impossible for his political allies, particularly the AFL, to condemn
the mayor.”

Lawrence now had the opportunity to turn the police bureau away
from political appointments, and he lost no time in acting. The fol-
lowing day he announced that career policeman Iames Slusser, who
had served as patrolman, captain, and assistant superintendent, would
assume the superintendency. Slusser had not been supported by either
ward chairmen or other political leaders in his climb to the top, and
his appointment over the heads of police officers with many more

A Bit of Tamish l> 307

years of experience and more political influence was meant to be a
sign that the police bureau would now be run differently. His selec-
tion was hailed throughout the city. Even Mrs. R. Templeton Smith
and the Allegheny County League of Women Voters praised it. ”It
was the first time she ever said anything nice about anything that
happened in the Lawrence administration,” Giesey recalled.-"-4

The young, energetic Slusser leaped into his new job determined
to rid the department of the shadow that had hung over it for so long.
He ordered stepped-up raids on rackets of any type, informing the de-
partment at a full-dress assembly that inspectors would be ”held
responsible for their own districts. All known rackets will be closed
down.” He also warned officers that discipline would be tightened
immediately.”

The new superintendent soon learned that there were strings at-
tached to the mayor's pledge of a free hand in operating the depart-
ment. Shortly after he had been sworn in, ”a total stranger walked
into his office and announced that he was Slusser’s new inspector.”
Slusser threw him out. Later in the day he received a phone call from
the mayor demanding an explanation of his rudeness: the stranger
had received the appointment through his ward chairman. To avoid
internal conflict in the machine, ”the mayor backed the ward chair-
man instead of his superindendent and the man was on the job the
next day/'26 Without Lawrence's support, Slusser could not possibly
clean up the half-century-old departmental cesspool.

The cancer of rackets and corrupt police continued to plague Law-
rence into the final year of his administration and even beyond. In
mid I9 57 a racket war between rival groups and a series of bombings
provided campaign material for the Republican mayoralty candidate,
Iohn Drew. Calling upon the mayor and the district attorney to take
action to end the ”surging racket war” he added, ”It is the sworn
duty of the mayor to enforce the law and provide the public with rea-
sonable protection. This cannot be done with coverups, politically-
dominated police districts and association with known racketeers.”
Drew's charges were given added weight when it was revealed that
three policemen deliberately concealed the identity of racket boss
Tony Grosso after he was allegedly roughed up by a rival gang in
Market Square. Lawrence intervened and fired all three officers, who
had sixty years of combined service, an action that prompted the Fra-
ternal Order of Police to suggest that ”the severe punishment was im-
posed only because this is an election year.”27

Lawrence received a rude reminder of his inability to control the
police force five years later, when his ”favorite cop,” racket buster

308 <1 Don't call me boss

Lawrence Maloney was tried for extorting and accepting bribes
amounting to hundreds of thousands of dollars from racketeers in
Pittsburgh. The testimony of Clarence Cooper, a twenty-eight-year
veteran of the police force, revealed the extent of the police-racket
association. "I began collecting money from a number of lottery op-
erations in 19 53 for Inspector Iohn Flavin and when Maloney was pro-
moted from inspector to assistant superintendent [he] set up a new
plan where I collected for everyone/'23

Maloney was acquitted at a first trial, in which several convicted
racketeers testified for the state, while Lawrence, Slusser, three Court
of Common Pleas judges, a State Supreme Court justice, and a state
senator attested to Maloney’s good character. At a subsequent fed-
eral trial for income tax evasion, two kingpins in western Pennsyl-
vania gambling operations gave evidence against him. Tony Grosso,
whose empire a state crime commission valued at $12 million per
year, testified that Maloney’s ”business” grossed on average $2500 per
week. ”Maloney received $1,000 per month for protection, . . . $1,000
at Christmas time and $1,000 when he went on vacation each year.”
Grosso also testified that he was made to pay $7000 at each election
time and another $2500 for police and political officials. Meyer ”Slick
Man” Sigal, head of Third Ward operations since 1937, indicated the
sophisticated nature of Maloney’s operation. Sigal paid $1950 for a
month with four Mondays and $2150 for one with five. (Monday was
traditionally the largest grossing day of the week.) He added another
$1000 to Maloney’s Christmas fund and $5000 for his yearly vacation,
and supplied whiskey by the case for parties. At one point when he
was late in paying, one of his stores was raided, and four people were
arrested. When he asked why he had ”been hit by a four bagger,”
Maloney told him to search his soul to see if he had done anything
wrong. Others who testified that they had made payoffs included such
colorful underworld characters as Martin ”The Wig” Walkow ($200
per month), Hyman Schwartz ($5200), Walter ”Pavo” Crisanti ($150
per week), and Abe ”Piggy” Rabinowitz.” (Sigal and others also tes-
tified to payoffs to other members of the police force and several mag-
istrates.) Maloney again won acquittal by explaining that he had won
his extra unearned income at the racetracks. David Craig, appointed
safety director by Lawrence's successor, Ioe Barr, was not convinced
of Maloney’s innocence. Immediately after the trial, Craig lifted his
suspension, paid him his back pay, and fired him on the grounds that
so much time spent at the racetrack constituted conduct unbecom-
ing to an officer. Maloney died of bone cancer a few years later.

Lawrence's problems with the police and rackets in Pittsburgh

A Bit of Tamish l> 309

show a pattern of indecision formed by four decades of ward politics.
He had two conflicting goals. On the one hand, he believed he needed
the lower echelon of the Democratic party to enable him to remain
in office and complete the rebuilding job to which he had committed
his administration. On the other, to rid the city of rackets and cor-
ruption required a complete overhaul of the system that had swept
the Democrats into power. When a reform was eventually effected
by Craig in 1967, he ”cut the hell out of the patronage system and
politics. He literally threw ward chairman out of the police stations
and out of the department.” Such a reform, Lawrence felt, would en-
danger the party and the city's Renaissance. It seems clear that, while
Lawrence was always aware of the police-politician-racketeer rela-
tionship, he subconsciously ignored the magnitude of the corruption.
He normally focused on what he termed the ”majority of good po-
licemen,” dealing with offenders only when they embarrassed or hurt
the administration. As late as 19 57 he insisted that only a few police
officers had ever been involved in corrupt activities.3°

V

The problems caused by the police-politician alliance had their
counterparts in city service agencies: supplies, lands and buildings,
and public works. Public officials, who received their jobs through
political efforts or associations, often abused their positions for pri-
vate financial benefit. As with the police, although it involved only
a minority, corruption had existed for nearly a half-century in Pitts-
burgh. It also required a great deal of the mayor's time, threatened
his administration, and had a lasting negative efiect.

For half of its length (1949-56), the Lawrence administration re-
mained under the shadow of what became known as the ”free work
scandal.” The incident began with an obscure accident in Butler
County, north of Pittsburgh, and mushroomed into a bitter political
battle that brought disgrace and prison to some and another scandal
to the Lawrence administration. While the details were often obscured
by a reenactment of the Lawrence-Margiotti dispute the 1930s, an ex-
amination of the scandal demonstrates that political appointees in
the Public Works Department were no less susceptible to illegal temp-
tations than those in the police bureau.

On the morning of 26 April 1949, a truck owned by the Allegheny
Asphalt and Paving Company was traveling north on Route 8 in But-
ler County. The truck lost a wheel, causing an accident in which
a passenger, Sam Dileisi, a stonemason employed by the city, was
killed. The driver, George Manko, also a city employee, sustained

10 <1 Don't call me boss

women, and he particularly preferred candidates with Ivy League
backgrounds.

At the age of nine, Lawrence began his education in the art of
practical politics when his father secured a part-time job for him as
a helper for Steve Toole, First Ward alderman. For five years David
ran errands, set up chairs for political rallies, passed out leaflets at
election time, and drove Toole’s wagon to help get out the vote. On
a number of occasions he was permitted to sit in on party caucuses
or other political meetings. Nothing is known of Lawrence's reaction
to his association with Toole, but he must have received mixed mes-
sages. Toole, an Irish-Catholic Democrat, maintained his strength in
the ward by working in collaboration with the Republican Flinn-
Magee machine. ‘He is a Democrat as far as national or state elec-
tions are concerned but is for his friends always in local affairs and
many of these happen to be ring Republicans. . . . It is a cardinal point
of his politics to support a friend. This, he believes, is a debt all politi-
cians owe and favors should be repaid by gratitude at least.“ In
cooperating with the ruling machine, Toole was simply following the
common Pittsburgh practice of operating the Democratic party as a
branch of the Republican organization. Democrats willing to go along
with the ruling duo of Flinn and Magee could expect appropriate re-
wards. At the height of their power, nearly one-fourth of all city and
county jobs were reserved for cooperative Democrats." Toole received
a city job and support for his periodic aldermanic elections. In Pitts-
burgh, one either joined the dominant party, followed their bidding,
or withdrew from politics. Lawrence learned this basic fact of politi-
cal survival well.

Young Lawrence, ironically, also worked inadvertently for the
Republican Flinn-Magee machine when he took a part-time job as
water boy for the Booth-Flinn Construction Company, which, by vir-
tue of a city-granted franchise, was installing trolley tracks on the
city's North Side.

David's association with politics, casual though it was, had al-
ready begun. He had seen his maternal grandfather and his father
benefit from their political activities, and Steve Toole was clearly the
first or second most important person in the First Ward. In addition,
David had observed old-fashioned ward politics in operation. The vic-
torious elections attributable to the smoothly operating Republican
machine had taught a great deal, but it was the occasional defeat that
produced lasting memories. Nearly fifty years later, shortly after his
election as governor of Pennsylvania, he vividly recalled: ”I’ve never
forgotten watching the men who'd been beaten in elections. Iust a

310 <l Don’t call me boss

multiple injuries but recovered. When questioned by a Pitts burgh Sun-
Telegraph reporter, he indicated that he and Dileisi had been head-
ing for the summer home of the city council president, Thomas Kil-
gallen. They also plarmed to stop at the home of Howard ”Buck” Gross,
head of the city's skilled laborers.

The issue seemed to disappear in a few weeks, but, one year to
the day after the accident, it was announced that Mrs. Dileisi was
bringing a $60,000 damage suit against Kilgallen, Gross, Manko, and
the Allegheny Asphalt and Paving Company. The company routinely
collected more than a million dollars a year from the city in paving
contracts, and its owners, Michael and Daniel Parish, were known
to be close friends of David Lawrence. The attorney who announced
the suit was none other than Charles Margiotti. It is not clear how
Mrs. Dileisi managed to retain Margiotti, whose normal clients were
high-paying criminal defendants. Margiotti’s biographer suggests that
Mrs. Dileisi sought him out, but Bloomfield residents who knew Mrs.
Dileisi suggest that Margiotti, smelling a political scandal involving
the Lawrence administration, offered his services.“ The lawsuit re-
kindled the still smoldering fire of antagonism between the mayor
and Margiotti.

City oflficials refused to comment on a case in litigation. The
mayor did order Anne Alpem to look into the matter, but she ran
into a stone wall when Margiotti refused to permit her to question
his client. Almost simultaneously, the city controller, Edward Frey,
of the Roberts-McClelland faction of the Democratic party, armounced
he was conducting his own investigation. Mrs. R. Templeton Smith
also announced that she would conduct an ”impartial” investigation
unless the ”govemor sends state troopers to Pittsburgh to conduct a
thorough investigation.” With three investigations and a scheduled
jury trial in the offing, the press asked for a full grand jury investiga-
tion. Lawrence, caught in a political pincer move, succumbed to the
pressure and on 9 June asked the city council to investigate the ac-
cusations of ”improper use of city labor and/or materials for the im-
provement of private properties,” and other issues raised by "various
anonymous and acknowledged statements appearing in the public
press/'32 A hearing was set for 13 June.

At the council hearings, Mrs. Dileisi testified that Allegheny As-
phalt had paved the private lane leading to the homes of Kilgallen
and Gross, that her husband and others worked on the homes on city
time, and that city materials were used on the Kilgallen home. Kil-
gallen and Gross both denied all the charges. The hearing took an
unexpected turn when Robert Laun, a payroll clerk in the Depart-

A Bit of Tamish l>

ment of Lands and Buildings, committed suicide. His wife later told
the council that Gross had ordered him to tamper with employees’
time cards, but her testimony was declared inadmissible hearsay.

On 30 Iune the council recommended the firing of Gross and
Manko, administered an official reprimand calling Kilgallen honest
but indiscreet, and criticized Frey for using bad judgment. Margiotti,
Mrs. Smith, and the papers termed the council's final report a white-
wash. Two days before the council made the report public, Lawrence,
apparently satisfied that the matter was under control, left for Eu-
rope with his wife and son Ierry on a planned five-week vacation.

A series of totally unexpected events in the next two weeks
caused the mayor's hasty return. Two days after the conclusion of
the council hearings, Republican Governor Duff stunned Democrats
by announcing Charles I. Margiotti as his new attorney general. The
following day, prompted by strong suspicions that Margiotti would
begin anew the free work investigation, the Allegheny County dis-
trict attorney, William Rahauser, petitioned the courts for permis-
sion to launch a grand jury investigation. Rahauser’s suspicions proved
correct when Margiotti announced on 6 Iuly that he intended to su-
persede the district attorney to conduct his own investigation. The
following day he appointed W. Denning Stewart to direct a broad in-
vestigation of the Lawrence administration. Rahauser responded that
he would not step down unless ordered to do so by the Pennsylvania
Supreme Court. Lawrence returned to Pittsburgh and made a pre-
pared statement at a hastily called news conference. As before, when
he defended the police department from outside attacks, he viewed
the challenge as a threat to his treasured rebuilding program. ”It is
my duty to see that no political attack will be permitted to tear
down this city administration and the enormous program of progress
which it is putting into efiect. No one is going to do that without
the fight of his life, and I hereby serve notice on Charles I. Margiotti
and his strange bedfellow James H. Duff, that they are in such a fight -
beginning now.”33

For the next several months the particulars of free work were ob-
scured in the details of the political battle. Brutal attacks and
counterattacks by both sides questioned the integrity, honesty, and
moral qualities of the opponents. The only lighter moment came when
the Italian Sons and Daughters of America inadvertently invited both
Lawrence and Margiotti to a Kennywood Park picnic. Lawrence was
eating his dinner when a round of applause broke out at the appear-
ance of the Italian attorney general. Lawrence, ”at the sight of Mar-
giotti, dropped his knife and fork, arose from the table and . . . in a

311

312 <1 Don’t call me boss

minute was gone.” The press naturally delighted in reporting any such
incident and every acerbic comment of the combatants, calling the
affair ”one of the most poisonous vendettas ever hatched in this state
of vicious political slugging.” Lawrence was particularly hurt when
the papers began to rehash the 1939-40 scandals.34

Meanwhile, Rahauser won the first round, in the Court of Com-
mon Pleas, when it was ruled that Margiotti had no right to super-
sede him. Margiotti, as expected, carried the case to the State Su-
preme Court, where, in a partisan vote of four Republican justices
to two Democratic, the lower court decision was overturned. Margiotti
was to have a free hand in investigating the Lawrence administra-
tion. Iudge Sara M. Soffel was selected to preside over a special grand
11113’-

The hearings began on 16 October and dragged on for fourteen
months, investigating both free work and the presence of rackets and
vice in Pittsburgh and neighboring towns. An interim presentment
of 14 December dealing with free work recommended the indictment
of Killgallen, Gross, and Frey for cheating and defrauding the city.
It also recommended indictments against the Parishes for bribery and
corrupt solicitation. (The special grand jury had no indicting power
of its own. It could only recommend indictments to a regular grand
jury.) The report noted that a large number of city employees had
worked on the Kilgallen and Gross homes, that unaccounted-for city
wages amounted to more than $180,000, and that Laun’s time book
was unquestionably altered. It also charged that the Parishes supplied
trucks, asphalt, and labor to Kilgallen ”for the purpose of influencing
decisions . . . in his official capacity as President of Council in any
matters affecting that company [Allegheny Asphalt] . . . which might
come before council.”35

The political nature of the dispute became even more apparent
early in 1950 when the twenty Democratic state senators made it clear
to the incoming Republican governor, john Fine, that they would not
approve any members of his cabinet until they had an opportunity
to Vote on the retention of Margiotti. The tactic worked perfectly,
and Margiotti resigned on 14 February with the magnanimous state-
ment to the governor: ”You should not be hindered because I have
been made the target of one man's political revenge. If this be the cost
of public service, I willingly pay the price but not at your expense/'36
The probe in Pittsburgh would continue, but without continual prod-
ding of the firebrand lawyer. Lawrence had won round two.

During the next several years, developments continued. Gross
died before his trial could begin, and Frey was found not guilty. The

A Bit of Tamish [>

Parish brothers won a directed verdict of not guilty when a visiting
judge determined that the state had not produced enough evidence
to determine that they had bribed Kilgallen. Kilgallen’s own trial was
postponed several times, and charges were ultimately dropped in 19 56.
(He had left the political scene in 19 51 when the party's executive com-
mittee, embarrassed by the scandal, refused to endorse him for reelec-
tion.) The special grand jury, meanwhile, recommended many more
indictments, including that of Mayor Lawrence for misdemeanor in
office on the grounds that the city purchased light bulbs from the
Broadway Maintenance Company for $5.65 each. The bulbs cost the
company 25¢ each. The presentment also charged that the E. W. Coal
Company supplied inferior coal to the city. In an ill-disguised attempt
to include the mayor in the charges, the jury noted that ”the respon-
sibility for the awarding, performance and payment for these city con-
tracts must be accepted by the mayor. . . . The waste of public funds
cannot be excused on the basis of reliance upon subordinates.” Law-
rence, back in Europe to complete the vacation he had started the
previous summer, this time refused to return. ”Its ridiculous,” he told
the press by transatlantic phone. ”It’s another effort by Stewart to drag
me in, in every way he can.”37 The regular grand jury later refused
to indict Lawrence but did act positively on the recommended indict-
ments of seven others. Of these only one was convicted, for issuing
contracts to the E. W. Coal Company when it was not the lowest
bidder.

Other free work scandals surfaced during the remaining years of
the Lawrence administration, but it appears that, though some wrong-
doing occurred, those directly responsible for the department con-
cerned tried to correct the situation. In three incidents that the ad-
ministration itself announced in early 1951, the offending workers
were all fired or suspended. When informed of the third incident, Law-
rence called in Alpem and the public works director, Iames Devlin,
for a dressing down similar to the ones he had given the police force,
thundering, ”I want this stopped. I want this cleaned up. I don't care
who's involved. I don't care what ends you go to.” A few days later
the Pittsburgh Press, not convinced of his sincerity, delivered a ring-
ing editorial entitled ”City Hall Ought to Get Hold of Itself.” Law-
rence responded with a full-page, point-by-point defense of his admin-
istration. ”there are about 6,ooo city employees and of that number
of people, you will always find a few who will abuse any privilege.”
The city had taken steps to correct the abuses, and he promised to
”root out and, to the best of my ability, drive out of public life any
proved crook or condoner of crookedness.” He concluded his state-

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314 <1 Don't call me boss

ment with a lecture to the press on its responsibilities. ”A free so-
ciety depends upon a free government and free government can rest
only on the confidence of the citizens. If the people of this country
are to be persuaded, in a wave of hysteria, that all government is cor-
rupt and dishonest, and that all public officials are either fools or
knaves, then and only then will we be ready for the dictatorships
which the Communists and Fascists are so eager to impose/'33

The scandals in the Lawrence administration lingered but never
reached the same feverish pitch again. One persistent rumor that Law-
rence found impossible to shake was that he either partially owned
the Allegheny Asphalt and Paving Company or that he received kick-
backs from the Parish brothers. The company managed to submit the
low bid on every city paving contract from 1945 through 1953; only
one other company offered competitive bids. The company became
the final target of the 19 51 special grand jury, which investigated for
several weeks but failed to uncover any evidence of a special connec-
tion, other than friendship, between Lawrence and the Parishes. The
issue was dropped before Christmas 19 51 but reappeared several times
during the remainder of Lawrence's administration. The prosecution
attempted to raise it in the 1954 Parish trial resulting from the free
work incident but was rebuffed by the presiding judge. It also became
an issue during the 19 57 mayoralty race, and two prominent Repub-
licans spent nearly forty thousand dollars in the early 1960s but un-
covered nothing of substance.” The rumor persists in Pittsburgh po-
litical circles to this day, but friends and associates of Lawrence point
to the modest estate that he left when he died as evidence that he
never personally benefited from his friendship with the Parishes. No
evidence to the contrary has ever surfaced.

The corruption and absence of ethical standards that permeated
the police bureau and to a degree the Public Works Department no
doubt tarnished the illustrious career of David Lawrence as mayor
of the city of Pittsburgh. As undisputed political and governmental
leader of western Pennsylvania, he was both able and obligated to
rid the city of its unsavory elements. His officials, at his insistence,
generally acted swiftly to deal with wrongdoing in the public works
and lands and buildings departments when public pressure forced such
action. However, in situations where he believed corrective action
threatened urban renewal or the unity of the Democratic party, he
carried a light stick.

l 9 4 6 — l 9 5 9
Politics as Usual

David Lawrence's life was filled from morning until night, seven
days a week. Urban redevelopment, strike mediation, lobbying for
state and national legislation, courting business and professional
groups, supporting minority group interests and fighting the brush-
fires created by the police and other groups—all these commanded
his attention. He also attended carefully to the time-consuming obli-
gations of his office: attending fund-raising affairs and ceremonial
dinners, cutting ribbons, conducting press conferences, escorting dig-
nitaries, and appearing at social and charitable functions. He almost
never said no to such requests. He participated actively in the U.S.
Conference of Mayors and twice served as its president. In 1953 he
received the conference's award for distinguished public service for
his efforts in rebuilding Pittsburgh and his contributions to the con-
ference itself. The only other person so honored by the organization
was U.S. Secretary of State George C. Marshall. The breadth of his
interests and his boundless physical energy become even more im-
pressive when one recalls that he was plagued with an unrelenting
eye ailment that limited his vision, often brought headaches, and re-
quired periodic surgery for a detached retina. He was completely im-
mobilized for several weeks, his eyes covered with bandages, follow-
ing such surgery.

Certainly his family saw little of him during his thirteen years
as mayor, but the pattern of absence had been established early. His
surviving children, two of whom married shortly after he assumed
oflice, were accustomed to a household without their father. At least
when he was mayor, he spent most of his time in the city and usu-
ally appeared at home at night or on weekends. His youngest child,
Ierry, who was seven when Lawrence became mayor, frequently vis-

315

316 <l Don’t call me boss

ited his father at the ofl-ice, joined him on campaign tours, and ac-
companied him to sporting events and political rallies. The two prob-
ably spent more time together at affairs such as these than they did
at home.

Left more and more alone, although the house still contained a
bounty of relatives, was his wife, Alyce. The relationship between
her and her husband, which never quite recovered from the loss of
their sons, remained strained for the rest of their lives. Alyce con-
tinued to drink, certainly more than her slightly puritanical husband
could tolerate, although she usually maintained control over what
today would be called an alcohol dependency. If she drank what Law-
rence considered an excessive amount when he was at home, an ar-
gument often erupted. Rather than remain in a difficult situation,
Lawrence often escaped by calling his ever available friend Frank
Ambrose, who would arrive within minutes to find the mayor stand-
ing in front of the house holding a small overnight bag. ”Take me
to the William Penn,” he would instruct Ambrose. He would remain
there for perhaps twenty-four hours. He thought that walking out was
the best way of dealing with the problem. 1 The couple apparently did
not discuss their relationship. Mrs. Lawrence accompanied her hus-
band to Harrisburg when he became governor but refused to join him
in Washington during the four years that he served on the staffs of
Presidents Kennedy and Iohnson.

Neither his duties as mayor, his family responsibilities, nor mari-
tal difficulties, however, kept Lawrence from engaging in his greatest
love, politics. If anything, he became more active in political affairs
at the local, state, and national levels than ever before. He retained
his interest in the minute details of local politics, prodding, ques-
tioning, and encouraging ward chainnen and district committee mem-
bers at his customary Sunday meetings at party headquarters or at
local rallies.

At the county level, he nurtured an occasionally uneasy alliance
between himself and a potential rival, County Commissioner John
Kane. Lawrence was careful to show deference to him and to avoid
any show of power. When Kane insisted on a position on the state
Democratic executive committee, Lawrence readily agreed. The com-
missioner seldom attended any meetings, but Lawrence never sug-
gested that he be replaced. Matters of protocol also became oppor-
tunities for Lawrence to demonstrate to Kane that he held him in
high regard. For example, they never met in Lawrence's office ; when
a need for discussion arose, Lawrence always went to Kane's office.
In 1950 when Natalie Saxe, advance agent for the Democratic guber-

Politics as Usual l>

natorial candidate, Richardson Dilworth, arrived in Pittsburgh, Law-
rence insisted that she first pay a call on Iohn Kane?

Occasionally the relationship became ludicrous, as when they had
difficulty agreeing on who would speak first on the telephone. The
matter was resolved when their aides suggested that the one whose
secretary placed the call be the first to get on the phone. Largely
because of Lawrence's careful behavior, disagreements between the
two, often over the choice of a candidate, never resulted in a politi-
cal breal<.3

Lawrence's interest and influence in statewide politics continued
during his mayoralty although he gave up his post as state Demo-
cratic chairman. He did not require a state party position to be able
to exercise power. With the removal of Senator Ioseph Guffey in 1946,
Lawrence's control was occasionally challenged but unrivaled until
Milton Shapp appeared on the scene in 1966.

At the national level, Lawrence's exhilarating experience as Demo-
cratic national committeeman from Pennsylvania in 1944 left him
with a hunger for greater involvment. He relished the intrigue and
maneuvering, and his ability to deliver delegate votes and to influ-
ence the national leadership soon made him the spokesman for the
urban political leaders. His influence was felt at each Democratic Na-
tional Convention from I944 through 1964.

With rare exceptions, politics in Pittsburgh after 1945 ceased to
be a contest between Democrats and Republicans. The domination
of the Lawrence-built party was so great that only the races for county
district attorney in 1947 and I9 51, influenced by the police scandals,
presented any challenge at all to the Democrats. Year after year the
Republican candidates for local office presented themselves for the
biennial November sacrifice. The majorities of the Democratic can-
didates grew larger with each election until the GOP found itself in
the position of its political opponents thirty years earlier—finding
willing candidates became more and more difficult. Newspapers,
radio, television, and even former political allies made the situation
more difficult for the GOP by calling for the reelection of Democrats.
At each election after 1945 (when the Post-Gazette endorsed Repub-
lican Robert Waddell), all three city newspapers supported Lawrence.
They regularly called for the election of a Democratic council, al-
though each occasionally endorsed a lone Republican candidate while
expressing concern over ”the trend toward a one-party system.” The
APL Central Labor Union, which supported Eddie Leonard in 1949,
joined in the rush to support Lawrence thereafter, as did numerous
professional and business groups. The Democratic party outspent the

317

318 <l Don’t call me boss

Republicans by $75,000 or more in the 1949, 1953 and 1957 mayoralty
campaigns, an indication of its new strength. Lawrence thoroughly
enjoyed the dilemma of his Republican opponents. ”It is laughable
to read that the GOP doesn't have the cash for this campaign. I have
prayed for that all my life/'4

Perhaps most difficult for the Republican party to accept was the
seeming desertion of the Mellon interests, along with that of many
prominent members of the Allegheny Conference on Community
Development. Richard King Mellon’s 1953 statement praising Law-
rence produced shock waves among local Republicans. One can only
speculate on the number of votes Lawrence received as a result, but
he easily defeated his opponent, Leonard Kane, whose only claim to
fame was that his brother I. M. Kane was Republican county trea-
surer. Running in the aftermath of the police and political scandals,
Lawrence overwhelmed his opponent by almost 55,000 votes, win-
ning thirty of the thirty-two wards. His Democratic running mates
won every other contested race, including four judgeships on the Court
of Common Pleas, giving the party a majority there for the first time
in the city's history.

Four years later, at the annual dinner of the Allegheny Confer-
ence, Mellon, as if to underscore his support, insisted that Lawrence
have his picture taken with him, Adolph Schmidt, and other corpo-
rate leaders. Speakers at the dinner praised Lawrence for his role in
rebuilding the city. Arthur Van Buskirk, executive secretary of T.
Mellon and Sons, added his voice when he armounced a short time
later that he endorsed Lawrence for a ”fourth term in office to fin-
ish the Pittsburgh program.” Prominent Republicans were becom-
ing the mayor's most influential political allies. Fortune and Time
added to the Republican party's woes when they published election-
eve issues naming Lawrence as one of the nation's outstanding mu-
nicipal managers.5 Former Common Pleas Iudge Iohn Drew, who
agreed to run against Lawrence after five others declined, suffered
the largest defeat of all Lawrence opponents, in spite of offering his
own seven-point program of reform. ”Mr. Pittsburgh,” as two news-
papers began to label him, won by nearly 60,000 votes, again sweep-
ing all but two wards.

As is characteristic of cities in which one party dominates, the
challenges Lawrence faced came from within his own party, and it
was opposition that he found almost impossible to tolerate. He
branded renegades as disloyal and disruptive opportunists, and, when
he could, he purged them from the party ranks.

One of the first to go was Iohn Huston, whom Lawrence had sup-

Politics as Usual l> 319

ported for city council in 1933 following his conversion to the
Democratic cause. He received the party's endorsement for register
of wills in three successive elections. Huston showed that his ambi-
tion exceeded his commitment to his new party when in 1941 he tried
to win the nomination for mayor over the party's endorsement of Cor-
nelius Scully for reelection. Following a primary defeat, he rejoined
the organization on the eve of the general election to claim a share
of the credit for Scully’s close victory. He was rewarded two years
later when the executive committee endorsed him for reelection to
the register’s position. But Huston was not content. He openly cam-
paigned for the committee's support for mayor in 1945, and when it
turned to Lawrence, Huston went on the attack. His campaign, charg-
ing the party's choice with a variety of evils and moral indiscretions,
was the most brutal Lawrence ever faced. Lawrence, nevertheless,
easily won the Democratic nomination, and this time the door was
closed on any attempted return by Huston. Stranded, he armounced
his return to the GOP in September 194 5 and resumed his invective
against Lawrence, this time on behalf of the Republican candidate,
Waddell.

Lawrence's public stance toward Huston was an almost stoic si-
lence, but privately he let party leaders know that he must be elimi-
nated at the next opportunity—the 1947 election. Huston, in spite of
his return to the GOP, boldly sought the Democratic endorsement
for a fourth term as register of wills two years later, thus presenting
Lawrence with the perfect opportunity to discipline him and set an
example for other would-be independents. The executive committee
unanimously rejected Huston’s bid. When he refused to accept the
decision, registered Democrats handed him a stunning defeat in the
primary, bringing a quick end to his political career and ridding Law-
rence of one of the most troublesome elements in the party.

Another minor political figure became, as Lawrence put it, too
ambitious for his own good. Ioe McArdle, the son of longtime City
Councilman P. I. McArdle, won reelection to the city council in 194 5,
the year of Lawrence's first election. With a reservoir of popularity
built by his father, he led the ticket that year, with five hundred more
votes than the newly elected mayor. McArdle proved to be a coopera-
tive member of the Lawrence team for the first half of his term, at-
tending the Monday morning caucuses and regularly voting with the
other members of the council for legislation requested by Lawrence.
His willingness to support the Lawrence program resulted from an
arrangement he negotiated with the council president, Thomas Kil-
gallen, whereby, in return, McArdle was allowed to name a police

Growing Up l>

few days before, everybody had been rushing up to shake their hand.
But when it was over and they'd been defeated, nobody bothered much
to speak to them. And that they didn't know how to take. I was just
a kid, but it taught me a lot/'13

The specter of defeat was to remain with Lawrence. More than
once he declined to run for office when he concluded that defeat was
likely. Moreover, as nearly every associate interviewed for this work
revealed, in every election, regardless of the size of his majority, he
”ran scared.” Associates were counseled to nm for office as if defeat
were imminent. Finally, perhaps as a guard against the possibility of
defeat that would remove him from politics, Lawrence retained his
insurance business all his life.

Lawrence's association with his most influential mentor, Wil-
liam I. Brennen, began immediately upon completion of the two-year
course at St. Mary's. Brennen, an Irish-Catholic son of an unskilled
ironworker, gave Lawrence the male role model his own father could
never provide. Born in midcentury, Brennen went to work for the
American Iron Works (later Iones and Laughlin) at age eleven. He even-
tually became a skilled machinist while continuing his education
through night school, and he later studied law under Iames K. Duff.
He began his own law practice in 1883, quickly becoming known for
his espousal of liberal causes and his support of organized labor, and
in 1893 was counsel to the Steelworkers in the infamous Homestead
steel strike. He later played a major role in the state legislature's enact-
ment of the Commonwealth's first workingmen’s compensation law.

Brennen began to dabble in Democratic politics during his iron-
worker years and served in a number of official capacities including
alderman, ward chairman, and Allegheny County Democratic trea-
surer. In 1876, at age twenty, he became the nation's youngest dele-
gate to the Democratic National Convention. In 1901 he became the
chairman of the Democratic party in Allegheny County, a post he
retained for seventeen years.

In 1903, fourteen-year-old David Lawrence applied for a job as clerk-
stenographer in the Brennen law office in the Hill District. Brennen,
acquainted with both Charles Lawrence and his son through their
political activities, was attracted by the younger Lawrence's enthusi-
asm and his devotion to the Democratic cause. He hired David, be-
ginning a political association that was to last until Brennen’s death.

Wealthy, educated, and urbane, Brennen nevertheless had much
in common with his young protégé. Religion, ethnic and class origin,
and training by the strong-willed Sisters of Mercy all drew the two
men together. They also shared strong sympathies with the labor

I1

320 <1 Don’t call me boss

inspector.6 The break between Lawrence and McArdle occurred when
Lawrence fired Inspector Iohn Dean after his indictment by the grand
jury in 1948. McArdle responded swiftly with an angry statement be-
fore a startled city council, charging the mayor with ”inexcusable
dereliction of duty and gross incompetence in his direction of law
enforcement by the city police.” Lawrence refused to comment but
angered the councilman further several weeks later by passing over
his choice for Dean's replacement.7

McArdle, with no options available, responded like a spoiled child.
He armounced that henceforth he would join Councilman Eddie Leon-
ard in boycotting the ”mayor’s private Monday sessions,” and he op-
posed virtually every Lawrence-supported piece of legislation to come
before the council in the next ten months. Lawrence, refusing to
become embroiled in a public controversy, remained silent, as he had
in dealing with Huston. A debate, of course, was unnecessary since
the organization had a strong majority on the council. He saved his
only comment until the nominating session of the executive com-
mittee in Iuly 1949. This was one of the few times when Lawrence
did not wait for a consensus to develop: he expressed his determina-
tion to have McArdle dropped from the party ticket. McArdle used
the afternoon council session as a forum for his angry response, call-
ing Lawrence ”the Stalin of Pittsburgh.” He was in the campaign to
stay, he said.3 It was a battle he could not win without party support.
McArdle suffered a resounding defeat in the primary and campaigned
for the Republican mayoralty candidate in the fall election. Two years
later McArdle moved to the party his father had deserted in 1933. In
return for his support for the Republican gubernatorial candidate, John
Fine, he received a minor post in Pittsburgh under the auspices of
the state insurance commissioner.

Lawrence demonstrated the depth of his animosity toward Mc-
Ardle when, several years later, he arranged to have him fired imme-
diately following the election of Democratic Governor George Leader.
He also revealed a mild pettiness, by refusing to call the access to
Pittsburgh's Mt. Washington by its proper name—McArdle Roadway,
”just as when he became governor, the Harvey Taylor Bridge [named
after the Republican state chairman] was the Forrester Street Bridge.”9

Lawrence reacted swiftly against Huston and McArdle, who had
proved irritating but were never political threats to him personally
or to the party. He could purge both with relatively little trouble. His
treatment of three other dissenters, however, indicates that, as usual,
the health of the party remained his paramount objective.

In Eddie Leonard's serious challenge in the Democratic primary

Politics as Usual l> 321

in 1949, for example, his labor support gave him a leverage that neither
Huston nor McArdle had. It was clear that his permanent separation
from the party could cause serious damage. Thus, the ever pragmatic
Lawrence not only agreed to permit Leonard's return to the party but
openly courted him.

Lawrence again ignored opposition within the party several years
later in his relationships with David B. Roberts, the powerful Fifth
Ward chairman and prothonotary, and his ally, William McClelland,
the county coroner. The crude Roberts had little education, whereas
McClelland was well educated and polished. But in other ways they
had much in common. Neither was a party man. Both were former
Republicans in the Pinchot administration, and both joined the rush
to the Democratic party in the mid 1930s. Roberts demonstrated his
importance to the party by consistently delivering substantial majori-
ties from his district. In return he received numerous patronage posi-
tions, which he used to increase his control of the ward. McClelland,
whom Lawrence had appointed in return for his early support of the
Democratic party, nearly always sided with Roberts, usually in oppo-
sition to Lawrence. Both announced their intention to run for mayor
in I94 5 but dropped out when Lawrence secured the nomination. The
three men disagreed occasionally over the next several years but re-
mained cordial and mutually supportive, although the fastidious Law-
rence developed a mild personal dislike for the grossly overweight,
unkempt Roberts.

The break occurred over two events that took place in late 19 53.
The first dispute centered on the question of filling a mid-term city
council vacancy. Under some pressure from the black Civic Unity
Council to demonstrate his support for black candidates, Lawrence
supported F. Paul Iones, a highly able attorney who had been Law-
rence’s protégé since the early days of the Roosevelt administration.
Lawrence considered him a highly capable team player. A resident
of the Fifth Ward, he had, however, spent little time in the rapidly
growing black ghetto.

David Roberts and the Fifth Ward Democratic committee had an-
other candidate in mind: Robert ”Pappy” Williams, who had worked
his way up through the party ranks, serving as block worker and dis-
trict comrnitteeman before replacing Roberts as Fifth Ward chainnan.
Almost as if to demonstrate that he could play power politics in the
same league with Lawrence, Roberts called for a vote of the ward com-
mitteemen on their choice for city council—]ones or Williams. The
following day, a triumphant Roberts announced the committee's 42
to o vote supporting Williams to the press declaring, ”T he commit-

322 <1 Don’t call me boss

tee people are the ones who work to get out the vote when party can-
didates run. We should be consulted when anyone from our ward is
up for a job/'10

Lawrence, who always maintained tight control over the party
endorsement process, immediately rejected the prothonotary’s argu-
ment. Ward committeemen, and even chairmen, were expected to
work for the party in return for patronage appointments and other
small perks. They had no say in leadership matters. Furthermore,
Lawrence was beginning to dislike and mistrust Roberts. Rejection
of Williams would demonstrate to Roberts the source of real power
within the party. He might command the loyalty of the Fifth Ward,
but Lawrence's power spread across the whole city. The mayor's
choice, Iones, was appointed by an obedient city council to fill the
vacant seat early in 1954.

Lawrence became embroiled in a second battle with Roberts and
McClelland in the midst of the controversy over the council vacancy.
In mid December they attacked the mayor's proposed wage tax and, as
opposition to it mounted, they stepped up their campaign. Lawrence
ignored them throughout the tax battle, presenting instead arguments
on the necessity of the levy, which he continually characterized as
”personally distasteful to me.” He waited until his moment of vic-
tory, the signing of the bill, to vent his anger at what he began to
call the ”Roberts-McClelland faction.” In a prepared statement handed
out to reporters—Lawrence refused to sign the tax bill in public-
he attacked the two men without naming them. ”It is significant
that in all the controversy over the earned income tax . . . the criti-
cism . . . has been most vociferous from those whose offices are so
minor in nature that they have never faced the responsibility of rais-
ing money—although they have been very successful throughout their
lives in drawing a pay envelope from the public funds. . . . The poli-
tician with no sense of responsibility is the worst enemy of Demo-
cratic govemment/'11

The three men continued a seesaw battle for the next four years.
When Lawrence blocked McClelland’s gubernatorial nomination bid
in 19 54, the coroner refused to bow out. In the primary, McClelland
nearly defeated George Leader, losing statewide by only 65,000 votes.
Most embarrassing to Lawrence was the coronor’s upset of the Demo-
cratic organization in all but two western Pennsylvania counties, in-
cluding Allegheny, and in the city of Pittsburgh. Lawrence attributed
the unprecedented defeat to a backlash against the wage tax and never
forgave Roberts and McClelland. They opposed almost everything
Lawrence did, and the arguments grew most heated at party execu-

Politics as Usual [>

tive meetings, which McClelland and Roberts attended by virtue of
their positions as elected row officers.”

The two malcontents earned Lawrence's enmity, but they appar-
ently understood that they were on safe ground. Each carried his own
constituency, which Lawrence believed was necessary to the contin-
ued success of the Democratic party. Moreover, it was always pos-
sible that, in the event of an open break, County Commissioner John
Kane would join their side. Lawrence, they knew, would strike a com-
promise. The battle over slating Ioe Dobbs to replace McClelland as
coroner when the latter became county commissioner reveals the
lengths Lawrence would go to avoid the intraparty fight. ”]oe Dobbs,”
Fenrich noted, ”was McClelland’s right hand man. . . . the newspapers
were saying we ought to have someone with a background in medi-
cine, medical examiner . . . and Lawrence pleaded with McClelland.
‘They're going to beat us. You're going to lose that damned office. Pick
anybody, but get a guy with a background. We'll put Ioe Dobbs some-
where else.’ But they insisted. Lawrence said, ’Allright, but God damn
it mark my words. I'll work for him. I'll raise money, I'll contribute
everything else a hundred percent, but we're going to lose that office.’
And sure enough we did/'13

Party regulars, upset over the frequency of their opposition, urged
Lawrence to dump Roberts and McClelland, but he steadfastly re-
fused. Overestimating their strength and their potential for damage
to the party, he was content to give them an occasional reminder that
he remained the major source of power in the party. In 19 58, for ex-
ample, the party executive committee denied endorsement for renomi-
nation to two protégés of the Roberts-McClelland faction, State Rep-
resentatives Daniel Verona and Matt ”the Rock” Anderson, and slated
attorneys K. Leroy Irvis and James F. Clark in their place. In what
was acknowledged by both sides as a test of power, Irvis and Clark
won easy victories, which gave Lawrence a considerable measure of
satisfaction. Roberts and McClelland, however, were secure as long
as Lawrence ran the organization. He would not endanger its well-
being by becoming embroiled in an open struggle for power. Their
dependency on the man they fought so consistently and his over-
estimation of their power became apparent when, one year after Law-
rence’s death, the executive committee refused to endorse either for
reelection. Both were defeated in the subsequent election.”

V

The inability of the Democratic party to dominate the state as
it did western Pennsylvania, rather than diminishing Lawrence's in-

323

324 <1 Don't call me boss

terest in statewide politics, added spice to the challenge. Though he
gave up his post as state chairman shortly after becoming national
committeeman, he remained the major power on the party's policy
committee, which continued to be dominated by western Pennsyl-
vania political leaders. The eastern leaders recognized Lawrence's
control.”

With seemingly full control of the western Pennsylvania elec-
torate, Lawrence launched a new election strategy in an attempt to
gain control of the state from the Republicans. Beginning in 1950, he
consistently encouraged the nomination of candidates from the east-
ern part of the state. An attractive Philadelphian or other eastemer
at the head of the ticket, he surmised, was necessary to capture the
eastern independent vote. Western Pennsylvanians could be counted
upon to return a substantial Democratic majority regardless of the
residence of the candidate.

Michael Musmanno, the Communist-hunting judge from Pitts-
burgh, nearly upset Lawrence's strategy when he announced early in
1950 that he intended to seek the Democratic nomination for gover-
nor. Labor and ethnic leaders, who traditionally supported him,
flocked to his side. Pittsburgh's popular ”labor priest,” Charles Owen
Rice, urged local and state leaders to endorse Musmarmo, as did
twenty-one borough, township, and ward leaders from Allegheny
County. Lawrence, however, would not be pressured. Musmanno had
proved several times before that he could not be counted upon to
follow the wishes of the party, and, being from western Pennsylvania,
he was unlikely to draw the necessary eastern votes to bring a vic-
tory. The state policy committee decided to support the recently vic-
torious Philadelphia city treasurer, Richardson Dilworth.

Dilworth, along with Joe Clark, had upset the Philadelphia Re-
publican regime for the first time in the century and was probably
Lawrence's best choice in his entire career. A Yale-educated million-
aire, Dilworth had won medals in both world wars, was an outstand-
ing lawyer, and gained a reputation as a reformer by his unrelenting
attacks against a corrupt city organization. He was once described
by a Republican writer as ”charming, generous, unstable, not remark-
ably scrupulous, brave, ambitious, fond of high living, eager to make
a splash, and fundamentally innocent/'16 He was considered by sup-
porters and many detractors to be a dedicated public servant.

In his attempt to maintain party unity and strengthen the Dil-
worth candidacy among Philadelphia’a large Italian-American popu-
lation, Lawrence prevailed upon Musmanno to run for lieutenant gov-
ernor. Dilworth expressed serious concern, but Lawrence, acting as

Politics as Usual [> 325

intermediary between the two unlikely running mates, persuaded him
to put aside his reservations. Musmarmo, he assured Dilworth, pledged
to avoid ”lone wolf” campaigning and to accept his speaking assign-
ments from the Democratic State Committee.

It was an agreement doomed to failure from its inception. Mus-
manno, about to launch his anti-Communist crusade in Pittsburgh,
could not be held back. He outcampaigned the more restrained Dil-
worth, but, in the eyes of the press and many of his would-be sup-
porters, he frequently overstepped the bounds of common decency.
”The shrill, sometimes demagogic pronouncements also called atten-
tion to his own abuses and pointed up Musmarmo’s ambivalent stands
on law and order as opposed to the right to dissent.” By the end of
September, Musmanno and Dilworth were conducting independent
campaigns whose pronouncements often contradicted each other.
Lawrence, when his attempts to corral Musmanno proved futile-
the feisty candidate spoke when and where he wanted—tumed his
attention and energies toward the Dilworth cause. He spoke frequently
all over the state on his behalf, often suggesting that what he himself
had done for Pittsburgh, Dilworth would do for the state. He also gave
Saxe and other members of the Dilworth staff a quick education in
campaign politics.”

Once again, Lawrence's statewide efforts ended in failure, although
the strategy appears to have been successful. The Democratic can-
didates carried Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, and Musmanno’s name
on the ticket drew large majorities in the Italian sections of both cities.
Musmarmo led the ticket in Allegheny County. Their success, how-
ever, was not enough to overcome the large majority that their Re-
publican opponents piled up in the rural counties. The well-known
liberal views of Dilworth, several campaign errors, and the conser-
vative trend sweeping the country were enough to bring about a close
8o,ooo-vote defeat. Lawrence was far from discouraged.

When the Democratic policy committee met in Harrisburg in the
fall of 1953, the Philadelphia and Pittsburgh newspapers speculated
that the party heads were laying strategy for Richardson Dilworth’s
second gubernatorial attempt. Musmanno had been effectively
shunted aside by his successful run for the State Supreme Court the
previous year, and former U.S. Senator Francis Myers, practicing law
in Washington, D.C., had no interest in the office. Lawrence ended
speculation that he himself would join the race by stating firmly that
under no circumstances would he be a candidate, for he still had work
to do in Pittsburgh.” He appeared ready to give his support to a sec-
ond try by Dilworth, now Philadelphia district attorney. With no other

326 <1 Don't call me boss

candidates on the horizon, the time seemed ripe for a united effort
to place a Democratic administration in Harrisburg. The Republican
administration of Governor Fine cooperated by passing an unpopular
tax package.

Events in Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, however, dramatically
changed the scene and caused Lawrence to intervene at the last mo-
ment to exert his influence. In Philadelphia a dispute over the removal
of patronage from municipal government threatened to create a split
in the party that would certainly hinder Dilworth’s chances of carry-
ing the state in 19 54. In Pittsburgh, meanwhile, Lawrence's wage tax
had undoubtedly removed some of the bite of the planned Democratic
attack against the Fine administration's state levy. It prompted the
candidacy of William McClelland, who was immediately supported
by Roberts. With the announcement by a Philadelphia ward chair-
men's group that it backed McClelland, who already had consider-
able support in western Pennsylvania, Lawrence was faced with the
unthinkable possibility that a McClelland steamroller might seize
control of the policy committee. Lawrence's control was threatened,
not only at the state level but in his home territory as well.

Drastic action was necessary to prevent the two factions from
ripping each other apart to the advantage of the Republicans. As dele-
gates began arriving in Harrisburg for the scheduled policy commit-
tee meeting, they learned that it had been postponed for one week.
State Committee Secretary Genevieve Blatt explained to them that
”the session was postponed because several members could not at-
tend,” and the wires sent to members the day before had apparently
failed to reach them in time. A number of angry delegates, mostly
McClelland supporters, charged that the real reason was to provide
Dilworth additional time to solve his Philadelphia problems. Blatt
later admitted the validity of the charges.19

Lawrence's trip to Philadelphia the following day gave credence
to the accusations. In a last attempt at negotiating a truce, he met
behind closed doors with the principals of the dispute and other lead-
ing Democrats. But his attempt was unsuccessful, and three days later
Dilworth, thinking he had little chance to win, withdrew his candi-
dacy.2° Following the overwhelming Eisenhower victory in 19 52, it
appeared to him to be a Republican year.

Lawrence's worst fears had come true. The postponed policy com-
mittee meeting was due in three days with only McClelland in the
race. The nomination, the newspapers speculated, might go to him
by default. Several names had surfaced over the weekend, but none

Politics as Usual l>

was considered a serious challenger. The possible alternatives included
former Lieutenant Governor Thomas Kennedy, whom Lawrence had
rejected in 1938 partially because of his long-standing conviction that
a Catholic candidate could not win. Nothing had changed, in Law-
rence’s mind, to make Kennedy more acceptable to the voters in 19 54.
Colonel Iohn Rice of Gettysburg, the unsuccessful candidate for gov-
ernor in 1946, was also suggested, but he declined to run, though in-
dicating that he ”might accept a draft.” Of all the candidates men-
tioned, only the name of first-term State Senator George Leader of
York County generated any interest. Oftentimes characterized dis-
paragingly as a chicken far1ner— the family did own a chicken ranch —
Leader's father had been a three-term state senator. The younger
Leader became county Democratic chairman in 1948 and was elected
to the State Senate in 1950. Two years later, at the age of thirty-five,
he ran well ahead of the national presidential candidate, Adlai Steven-
son, in a losing cause for the position of state treasurer. Young and
charming in a boyish way, the articulate Leader might be an ideal
candidate in a race that many Democrats felt was lost anyway. A solid
run, even if unsuccessful, would give the energetic candidate addi-
tional valuable exposure.

Contrary to popular belief, the nomination of Leader as gubema-
torial candidate on 27 February surprised neither Leader nor the party
heads. It was a textbook example of behind-the-scenes political ma-
neuvering that often characterizes American politics. Lawrence, play-
ing coy, expressed reservations about Leader's age but agreed to give
him serious consideration, not letting on that he had already made
inquiries about him. ”What Dave wanted to see was what I could go
out and scratch up for myself. Then if I was an acceptable candidate,
I would be his candidate. . . . I worked very long and hard . . . on the
telephone and personally, and had some help from Andrew Bradley
and others. . . . I must have had two-thirds of the votes.” On the mom-
ing of the policy committee meeting, Lawrence summoned Leader
to his hotel suite, and when he was satisfied that Leader had the nec-
essary support, ”he said, ’Yes, you're the person’/'21

The meeting of the policy committee proved anticlirnactic: Leader
received unanimous endorsement. Lawrence demonstrated his power
by preventing McClelland’s name from being entered in nomination.
Of course, he could not prevent him from running his own indepen-
dent campaign in the primary. McClelland carried western Pennsyl-
vania but was soundly defeated in the rest of the state. In Philadel-
phia County, Leader had a substantial majority that enabled him to

327

328 <1 Don't call me boss

carry the state by approximately sixty thousand votes. Attempts by
Lawrence during the primary to get McClelland to withdraw from
the race proved futile.

The Republicans, who countered the Leader nomination with the
selection of Lieutenant Governor Leonard Wood, began the campaign
with a 9oo,ooo-vote advantage in registration and a state payroll of
6o,ooo workers. They also had substantially more money. The Demo-
cratic State Committee had raised only $60,000 for its entire state
primary campaign. Reverse sides of the same issue were espoused dur-
ing the campaign, the Republicans charging that the Democrats would
enact a state wage tax as soon as they took office, and Democrats
attacking Governor Fine’s sales tax as unjust and hinting that it might
be unconstitutional. Leader made a pledge he would later regret: that
he would do everything in his power to repeal the tax.

Dilworth was not the only politician who misjudged the politi-
cal climate in 19 54. The Eisenhower victory in 19 52, as many analysts
have since pointed out, was one of personality rather than party and
proved to be a misleading indicator of the political sympathies of the
electorate. Democrats captured eight govemorships formerly held by
their opponents and held all ten that they had fonnerly controlled.
Key victories occurred in New York, Minnesota, and Pennsylvania,
where Leader won a 3oo,ooo-vote victory. The Pennsylvania outcome
represented a 6oo,ooo-vote turnaround since Eisenhower's victory.
Leader's majority in Lawrence's home county, which had supported
McClelland in the spring, was 87,000; in Pittsburgh, 58,000; in Phila-
delphia, 121,000. The shift from Republican to Democratic spread
throughout the state as twenty-seven counties switched, the Demo-
crats retained nine and the Republicans thirty-one. The Republican
counties, however, included the eight sparsely populated ones along
the state's northern border (82,000 votes), and seven in the bible belt
in the center of the state (fewer than 2oo,ooo votes). The Democrats
also gained control of the State House for the first time in a decade
and were only one senator short of a majority in the upper house as
well. The organization had pulled off its biggest upset since the Earle
victory in 1934.22

Lawrence could barely contain himself on the morning follow-
ing the victory. He called the Democratic sweep ”the greatest victory
for the state of Pennsylvania since the early days of the Roosevelt
years.” Referring to the Little New Deal, much of which was repealed
by subsequent Republican administrations, he predicted, ”We will
finally complete the job we began under the Earle administration.”
By speaking in the plural, the mayor gave a clue that the Leader ad-

Politics as Usual [> 329

ministration was to be a team organization. He did not intend to send
his candidate to Harrisburg without help. He persuaded Iames Finni-
gan, a Democratic power in Philadelphia, to accept the post of secre-
tary of the Commonwealth. He also arranged to have his close politi-
cal ally Ioe Barr elected Democratic state chairman to play the role
of unofficial whip that he himself had played so well two decades
earlier. Post-Gazette political writer Iohn Iones credited Lawrence
with helping ”to create and shape the twenty odd member ‘brain trust’
of professional and business experts that will strive to keep Pennsyl-
vania at the top of America's list of favored states.”4° Leader credited
Lawrence with suggesting a number of ”outstanding appointments,”
but not all were made with only administrative expertise in mind-
ethnic background and geographical representation were also taken
into account.”

Lawrence willingly sent a number of ”his people” to Harrisburg
to participate in the Leader administration, but when he was offered
the post of secretary of commerce, he adamantly refused again, argu-
ing that he was needed in Pittsburgh.“ Unspoken, of course, was the
memory of his earlier unpleasant experience in the state capital. A
number of reporters speculated that Lawrence might view the offer
as a vindication, but he was enjoying too great a sense of fulfillment
as mayor and Democratic power broker to return to the site of his
earlier torment. He instead prevailed upon his long-terrn associate
and right hand, John Robin, to take the post in his place.

Lawrence's refusal of a cabinet post, of course, did not mean that
he intended to play no role in the Leader administration. As he had
done so many times before, he operated from behind the scenes to
influence the legislature to support the Democratic program, going
to Harrisburg and lecturing the Democratic caucus when necessary.”
Lawrence was determined that the first Democratic state administra-
tion since the Depression would succeed in enacting an impressive
program, but he was careful to avoid the boss image. Democratic
House and Senate leaders viewed his guidance as firm but never au-
thoritarian, and George Leader willingly accepted his active role in
the administration. ”On a few occasions we had some real differences
as you would expect and Dave pushed pretty hard, and I pushed back
pretty hard/'26

It was indeed the ”pushing back and forth” that intrigued Law-
rence. He loved the challenge of building a successful coalition, seek-
ing compromise, and reaching an objective. To him it was the essence
of politics, and he never apologized for being a politician. One could
not succeed in state and local government without being a good politi-

12 <1 Don’t call me boss

movement and, of course, Democratic politics. They even shared a
physical ailment, a lifelong vision disability. Brennen worked Law-
rence hard——ten hours per day, six days per week—in his law office,
and according to Lawrence, ”he never broke his bank book by paying
us good salaries.” As a bonus, however, Brennen began to teach Law-
rence the art of politics as he knew it, and the two held long discus-
sions that often lasted until late at night.19 Unfortunately, little is
known about these discussions, although Lawrence later acknowl-
edged their importance in his political development. What does seem
clear is that from this relationship, combined with his earlier experi-
ences, Lawrence formed a number of important views.

Both held ambivalent attitudes toward working—class, blue-collar
life. It was a life from ’which they had escaped, and they were always
slightly uncomfortable in blue-collar surroundings in later life. Bren-
nen, for example, although known as Pittsburgh's labor lawyer, en-
joyed his affluence. He was known to dress in the height of fashion,
loved fast cars, and lived in a fashionable home at 2327 Fifth Ave-
nue.2° He migrated further east into Oakland when the Fifth Avenue
district became less desirable because of the influx of Southern and
Eastern European immigrants. While he retained his interest in sport-
ing activities, he also cultivated an interest in the theater—a taste
Lawrence later acquired—and in other arts. Most important, nearly
all of his friends, many of whom visited the Brennen ofl-lce regularly,
were wealthy Republicans. His unusual ability to deal successfully
with affluent, Protestant, Republicans while at the same time act-
ing as the spokesman for organized labor was a skill Lawrence also
later perfected.

Brennen, perhaps to cover up his blue-collar background, devel-
oped a formal style and manner in his relationships with others. Law-
rence adopted a similar style. Individuals were addressed by their for-
mal titles. Except in the most private of moments or with a few close
friends, a coat and tie were the expected form of dress in Brennen’s
and later Lawrence's offices. One longtime aide recalled, ”You couldn't
come into his [Lawrence's] office, or the Democratic headquarters,
with short sleeves or no white shirt or tie. ‘God damn it, you're a
gentleman. This is an office.’ he would say. And he really would get
mad. . . . Even at political picnics with free beer, sandwiches and
games Lawrence would have on his white shirt and tie. He might take
ofi the coat but never the tie.” Later his formality extended to his
co-workers in the Democratic party. During one campaign he hap-
pened to run into two Democratic candidates— one running for county
treasurer, the other for a local judgeship. The two, dressed in open-

330 <1 Don’t call me boss

cian. Even the weddings of his daughters became political events.
When his oldest daughter, Anna Mae, married in 1946, the family at-
tempted to keep the wedding ”small” by cutting the guest list to around
five hundred. The practical Lawrence approved of the moderation,
but the politician in him could not bear ”to make five hundred or so
people mad,” so he declared, ”Everybody’s invited.” A crowd of more
than one thousand attended church services. Two years later Mary
Alice's wedding was arranged for Iozoo A.M. on Thanksgiving Day.
Almost simultaneously Iohn Kane's daughter Rita's wedding invita-
tions were sent out for precisely the same hour on the same day. Local
politicians would have to decide which to attend. The mayor averted
a political crisis by announcing ”T he time of my daughter's wedding
will be moved back an hour and a half in order that everyone who
wishes to attend both ceremonies can be present and have plenty
of time to get to the East End in time to attend Mary Alice's mar-
riage/'27 Once again Lawrence's willingness to compromise resolved
the dilemma.

V

By the middle of his first term of oflice as mayor, Lawrence had
gained a wide reputation for his ability to mediate seemingly intrac-
table disputes. Labor-management relations, intraparty battles, and
public—private sector differences were all influenced by his deft touch.
His reputation as a power broker on the national scene, however, was
just beginning to grow. He had played minor roles at several Demo-
cratic National Conventions and was a major factor in the nomina-
tion of Harry Truman for vice-president in 1944. As his stature grew
with each political victory and each success in urban redevelopment,
he began to assume the role of spokesman for the influential group
of big-city mayors. His advice, assistance, and support were sought
at each national convention by presidential and vice-presidential
hopefuls.

Although no one could know it at the time, the quick action of
Lawrence, Robert Hannegan, the national chairman, and a few oth-
ers in stalling the renomination of Henry Wallace for vice-president
in 1944 catapulted Harry Truman into the chief executive's office
within ten months. It also earned Pittsburgh's mayor the lasting grati-
tude of the president. The two politicians corresponded frequently,
exchanging congratulations on political victories and holiday and
birthday wishes, and meeting occasionally to exchange views on po-
litical matters, especially as they related to Pennsylvania. Truman
acknowledged a gift of Clark's Teaberry Chewing Gum, produced in

Politics as Usual [> 331

Pittsburgh, by assuring Lawrence that it would be ”used in the proper
way for the benefit of the country.”23 While theirs could not yet be
considered a close relationship, the two men were growing quite fond
of each other. Lawrence further endeared himself to Truman when
he stepped in to prevent a professional embarrassment to the presi-
dent's daughter Margaret as she was embarking on her concert career.
Lawrence discovered that a May 1947 concert date in Pittsburgh had
”no advance sale worth talking about. The thing had all the earmarks
of a boomerang.” Drawing on funds from the party treasury, he pur-
chased one thousand tickets and had them distributed to public and
parochial school students. He also issued instructions to party work-
ers throughout the city to attend the concert. The standing room
only crowd, although musically unsophisticated, treated the star to
an evening of wild enthusiasm. ”We put on a real concert and it was
a howling success,” Lawrence recalled proudly. ”I remember how grate-
ful he [Truman] was to me when I came in [to Washington] and he
said a thing that's always stuck with me. . . . Here he was in the Of-
fice of the President, he said, ’You know Dave, she's all I got. I'll never
forget you.’”29

Lawrence's respect for Truman grew during the president's first
term in office. ”It was interesting to watch the evolution as he got
into office. . . . First he was timid and approaching it slowly, realiz-
ing whatever inadequacies he might have had. You could just see him
picking up the threads that Roosevelt had left down. In the course
of about a year or so he was in absolute command of the situation,
of himself, and of the various governmental agencies.”3°

Firmly committed to Truman, Lawrence traveled to the Demo-
cratic National Convention in Philadelphia determined to fight any
efforts to dump him in favor of Dwight Eisenhower, currently the
favorite among many Southern Democrats, or any other challenger.
Early in March 1948, he had attacked the threat of the Southern coali-
tion to ”defeat the President's bid for a nomination or to leave the
party.” ”This country has no place for a reactionary Democratic party,”
he told party workers at several Iefferson-Iackson Day dinners. ”This
party must remain a liberal party or lose its position of leadership.
The President hasn't advocated anything in his civil rights stand that
Thomas Iefferson didn't stand for——and he was a Southerner. So was
Andrew Iackson and he stood for the same things and he was a South-
erner. Woodrow Wilson was from Virginia and he advocated the same
program. . . . I don't know why the Southern political leaders are
against Truman for advocating the same thing. President Truman
deserves our gratitude, our loyalty, our help for his civil rights pro-

332 <1 Don’t call me boss

gram.”31 The president, in Lawrence's view, deserved the renomina-
tion on merit. Furthermore, to nominate anyone else would violate
Lawrence's long-held policy of supporting the incumbent.

The convention itself illustrated Lawrence's role as a national
leader in a party that appeared to some political observers to be op-
erating without a leader. Genevieve Blatt called it the ”most depress-
ing convention we ever entered. It seemed like we were just going
through the motions.” Pittsburgh's mayor, delivering the welcoming
address, tried to ignite the delegates by delivering a stinging attack
on the Eightieth Congress and Pennsylvania Republican boss Ioseph
Grundy, president of the politically powerful Pennsylvania Manufac-
turers’ Association. Lawrence, the compromiser and frequent fence-
sitter, then armounced the strength of his support of Truman. ”The
party must continue to make clear the contrast between Republicans
and Democrats as I believe President Truman has made it clear in
his courageous showdown with the Republican Eightieth Congress/'32
Lawrence's address failed to produce enthusiasm among the delegates,
described by the press as inattentive, but it signaled that the state
he represented was prepared to deliver its seventy-four delegate votes
to Truman. Working behind the scenes, he met several times with
a number of city bosses, including Iacob Arvey of Chicago, Carmine
Di Sapio of New York, and Frank Hague of jersey City. One by one
they all joined in support of Truman.

Lawrence, as well as countless other political observers, gave
credit to Senator Alben Barkley of Kentucky for delivering the knock-
out blow to any potential challengers to Truman's renomination.
Barkley electrified the crowd with a one-and-a-half-hour address de-
nouncing the Republican Congress and praising the president, which
was followed by a quick nomination of Truman on the first ballot.
The Missouri Democrat arrived, to wild cheering, at approximately
2:30 A.M.

A more objective analysis of the proceedings, however, suggests
that the party professionals had decided to accept Truman well be-
fore Barkley generated the first real enthusiasm of the week-long con-
vention. Eisenhower had firmly stated that he was not a candidate
for nomination by either party, and only his strongest supporters gave
serious consideration to a draft movement. The Southern Democrats,
angered over the civil rights issue, could come up with no alternative
who would attract majority support, In reality, the president had no
opposition although many who supported him expressed grave reser-
vations. Even Lawrence later admitted that he was disturbed because
he did not think Truman was going to win.33

Politics as Usual l> 333

Speculation about the vice-presidential choice began immediately
after Truman's triumphant entry into the convention hall early on
Thursday morning, but the question had apparently been settled days
before. Iohn Iones of the Post—Gazette related the events.

It was on the Sunday night before the convention opened. I got
a tip from a fella in the Bellevue Stratford. He said, ”You’re
missing a story. . . . You go down to the Warrick Hotel and you
wait there. In about a half an hour, forty-five minutes you're
going to see the god damndest assembly of Democratic bosses
you ever saw get off that elevator.”

So I took his advice, . . . and sure enough there was Bill
Malone of San Francisco. There was Arvey from Illinois. There
was Frank Hague from Iersey City; somebody from St. Louis,
somebody from Boston and Lawrence. I asked him [Lawrence]
when he got off the elevator, what he was doing there. . . . And
he told me thewhole story. He said, ”We are going for Barkley
for vice-president.” I replied, ”I don't know if the President is
going to buy it or not.” ”We are sending a delegation down to-
morrow to put it before him,” he responded. ”Some people out-
side our circle would like to see a fella like [Supreme Court lus-
tice William 0.] Douglas. But I don't think the President wants
Douglas and I don't think Douglas wants the job because he
doesn't consider Truman liberal enough/'34

Lawrence and Arvey met with Truman the next day and convinced
him that Barkley’s support among Southern and border state Demo-
crats made him the best choice. Another contender, Senator Ioseph
O’Mahoney of Wyoming, remained popular in the Midwest but could
do little to aid the ticket in the South. Truman readily agreed and
let it be known that he preferred Barkley to the other candidates. The
Kentucky senator won nomination on the first ballot.

The crucial battle of the Democratic Convention of 1948, how-
ever, focused on neither the presidential nor vice-presidential nomi-
nations but upon two alternative civil rights platform issues. Law-
rence was in the midst of the fight throughout the convention. He
made known his position favoring a strong civil rights plank before
the convention when he joined Iames Roosevelt, Mayor Hubert Hum-
phrey of Minneapolis, and Iacob Arvey in urging its adoption. When
asked if his position meant that he had given up on an attempt to
pacify the South on the civil rights program, he snapped, ”It’s not a
question of pacification. It's a matter of principle.” Two weeks later,

334 <1 Don't call me boss

along with Truman and Humphrey, he made clear his willingness
to support his principles when he rejected a weakened civil rights
provision. He issued a simple but firm order to his state's delegates.
”Be in your seats at today's session especially when the platform is
presented. Many things in that platform will be important to us in
Pennsylvania, such as what the platform says about civil rights, the
Taft-Hartley Labor law and Palestine; The Palestine question will be
particularly important in our large centers where there is a big lew-
ish vote. And some southemer might want to poll the delegation so
you'd better be there to answer/'35 When Lawrence returned home
after the convention, he informed the press that it was the most sat-
isfying of the nine he had attended. He obviously enjoyed his posi-
tion in the center of the political storm.

It was at the 19 52 convention, however, that Lawrence played his
most significant role. Before the convention, a group of supporters
from Illinois had generated a popular boom for Adlai Stevenson, then
a candidate for reelection as governor of Illinois. Stevenson consis-
tently rebuffed their overtures, refusing to become an active candi-
date for two offices at the same time. As the convention opened, the
front-runners appeared to be Barkley, Estes Kefauver, and Stevenson.
Truman had already announced that he would not be a candidate,
and Barkley followed suit on the third day. The ”draft Stevenson” com-
mittee met with Lawrence before the convention, and he made it clear
that he favored their candidate but felt that, unless he made known
his candidacy, his chances were slim. ”He would not intimate, even
to Arvey, that he would accept the nomination so that we in turn
could tell others,” Lawrence said later. ”That was a tremendous handi-
cap with the politicians who were thinking of their futures—where
they would stand with whoever was finally elected/'36 Lawrence pro-
fessed his own reluctance, but nevertheless he promised to do what
he could.

The amateur status of the ”draft Stevenson” group became clear
at a meeting to discuss the draft. Admitting that it expected perhaps
a hundred votes on the first ballot, the committee appeared at a loss
as to what to do next. ”Our Draft Committee had assumed, when we
opened headquarters on Iuly 16, that all we had to do was to serve
as a clearing-house of information for delegates and as a center for
the stimulation of news about Stevenson. We soon discovered the
truth of what Dewey Fleming wrote in the Baltimore Sun on Friday
the 18th: ’Chicago is filling up with a throng of leaderless and bewil-
dered delegates and minor local bosslets looking vainly for someone
to tell them which way to go and what to do/"37 This meeting broke

Politics as Usual [> 335

up with no resolution or plan. Lawrence was called upon for help,
and he arranged a Sunday morning meeting at the Blackstone Hotel
attended by Iames Finnegan, president of the Philadelphia city coun-
cil, former U.S. Senator Francis Myers, State Senator Joe Barr, and
Genevieve Blatt. Philadelphians Richardson Dilworth, Ioseph Clark,
and Matthew McCloskey, all Kefauver supporters, and Iohn Kane,
then backing Harriman, were not invited.

The small group of insiders decided that a symbolic act of sup-
port for Stevenson was needed to launch a movement toward him.
Contrary to prior agreements with members, Lawrence called a sur-
prise caucus of the Pennsylvania delegation for 7:00 P.M. Sunday night.
The first caucus to be held, it was heavily covered by the press, radio,
and television. As national committeeman, Lawrence was the first
to vote in the preferential ballot. He spoke one word: ”Stevenson.”
His vote was enough to entice other delegates to join him. Steven-
son carried the straw ballot with 32 votes; Kefauver received I 5. 5. Penn-
sylvania became the first large state to announce its support of Steven-
son. The Kefauver supporters were angry, and Kane was outraged. He
was still fuming three days later when Richardson Dilworth visited
him to attempt to convince him to switch his support from Harri-
man to Kefauver. ”I went up to see Mr. Kane,” Dilworth explained.

He was angry and incensed. He was ashen gray. His left hand
was swollen. I was afraid he was going to have a stroke. Mr.
Kane started on a tirade against Dave Lawrence. I tried to calm
him but the bitterness just spouted from him for an hour and a
quarter. I couldn't get a word in edgewise.

He went way back to I912. He got an accumulation of re-
sentment off his chest that apparently had been building up for
years. He cited instance after instance where Dave Lawrence
had crossed him. He was raging. He was bitter. He was almost
apoplectic. I was frightened and concerned but I couldn't calm
him down. ”If it's the last thing I do,” he declared, ”I will pre-
vent Dave Lawrence from being re-elected mayor of Pittsburgh
next year/'33

Lawrence, Finnegan and several other key members of the Penn-
sylvania delegation met again with the Illinois group immediately
after the Sunday caucus. The pros were now ready to take over. Law-
rence described his first reaction to the amateur group: ”If you ever
saw a shenanigan organization, there it was. The first thing they
wanted to do was to elect me as floor leader for Stevenson. I explained

336 <1 Don't call me boss

why that was the last thing they should do—the opposition would
tag me as a city boss and say the bosses were trying to dominate the
convention.”39 Lawrence instead recommended former Senator Myers
who had served as majority whip and was known and respected by
northern and southern party leaders. Those present immediately sup-
ported Lawrence's suggestion.

From that moment the Lawrence-Finnegan-Myers influence was
apparent. They were involved in every key decision in the draft move-
ment and were instrumental in converting key delegates from other
important states. ”Lawrence was constantly in touch,” Blatt related.
”He was the telephone artist. He had people on the line all the time.
He wasn't running around. . . . [Finnegan and Myers] checked in with
him constantly/'40 At the final poll of the Pennsylvania delegation
before the balloting, Lawrence delivered an impassioned plea.

He has proven to be the best vote-getter in the Democratic
Party, bar none. He has out Smithed Al Smith in Illinois. Ste-
venson carried Illinois by over 592,000 votes—far ahead of what
the national ticket has been able to do here.

It is not necessary to ask him what he would do about cor-
ruption. He has cleaned up the machine in his state. He has
fought for a real fair employment practices commission. He
does not need to say what should be done. He has done it.

There is the most natural flow of votes to this man that I
have ever observed. It reminds me of the trend to Roosevelt in
the convention twenty years ago. I feel honestly that he can
better unite the party than anyone else.“

Lawrence accurately saw the trend toward Stevenson, but several
crucial questions remained. First, Truman's position following the
withdrawal of Barkley was unknown. It was unclear how many Bark-
ley delegates Truman controlled, but Lawrence, aware that neither
Kefauver nor Senator Richard Russell was acceptable to the president,
decided to smoke him out. After the speech nominating Stevenson,
Lawrence moved for a poll of the Missouri delegation on the floor
of the convention. When Truman alternate Thomas Gavin armounced
his support for Stevenson, all doubt about the president's choice evapo-
rated. Barkley supporters could switch in good conscience.

A second problem, however, proved more complicated. The re-
quirement that all seated delegates pledge support to both the nomi-
nated candidate and the platform, with its strong civil rights plank,
portended a Dixiecrat walkout similar to that of 1948. Lawrence and

Politics as Usual [> 337

Franklin D. Roosevelt, ]r., sitting on the credentials committee,
drafted a compromise rule, but delegates from Virginia, South Caro-
lina, Louisiana, Mississippi, and Texas refused to go along. Lawrence
then showed that his zeal for Stevenson outweighed even the civil
rights issue. Speaking to the committee before national television
cameras, he armounced that he would vote to seat the Mississippi
delegation regardless of its opposition. ”This election is not won, . . .
and in November, we may find ourselves in a real need for all the
electoral votes we can get. . . . You must remember that Mississippi
is not alone in this so-called Dixiecrat movement/'42 The committee
voted to seat all five delegations, leading one Pennsylvanian to claim
that Lawrence's action was that of a political sidewinder. When a floor
challenge to the Virginia seating was raised by the Minnesota delega-
tion, Lawrence again acted to prevent a regional division. Pennsyl-
vania led the way to rejecting the challenge 6 so to 518.

Three ballots were required to nominate Stevenson. Kefauver led
on each of the first two, although Pennsylvania gave Stevenson 36
and 40 votes respectively. With Lawrence and Myers continuing to
pressure their delegates, the opposition folded on the third ballot.
Dilworth perhaps best illustrated Lawrence's hold over the delegation
with his comment that, when the chips were down, he had to go along
with the mayor. ”I’d like a crack at [the govemorship] again in 19 54.
How could I with Dave Lawrence against me?”43 When Pennsylva-
nia’s turn came on the third roll call, Myers announced all 70 votes
for Stevenson, giving him 542 of the 615 needed for nomination. Even
Kane had capitulated. The Pennsylvania vote signaled the end of the
struggle. The Stevenson draft had succeeded.

The triumph left Lawrence, ”looking like the cat that swallowed
the canary. Mr. Lawrence stood behind the speakers’ rostrum and
smacked his lips as the jubilant throng swirled through the amphi-
theater” during the ”spontaneous” demonstration for Stevenson. ”The
mayor, smiling from ear to ear, stood by himself and watched the
parade sweep on. He had picked a winner.”44

Stevenson's November defeat at the hands of Eisenhower failed
to dampen Lawrence's enthusiasm. He stood almost in awe of Steven-
son, with his correct mixture of high social background, education,
and political savvy, and predictably began to campaign for his renomi-
nation as early as the fall of 19 5 5, one full year before the next conven-
tion. Lawrence was frequently asked to comment on his choice for
the nomination, and he provided a stock answer. ”Stevenson is the
best equipped man in the country today to be president and he has
the personality to get himself elected. There have been few, if any,

338 <1 Don’t call me boss

men in our national history who have been so precisely trained for
the presidency.” Convinced that the American people would now judge
Eisenhower not as a military hero, but as a ”civil administrator who
has demonstrated his lack of training for the job,” Lawrence eagerly
awaited the next campaign. ”I would not expect Adlai Stevenson to
lead the American Expeditionary Forces brilliantly, and I do not blame
Dwight Eisenhower for failing to perform the President's job.”45

The 19 56 Democratic National Convention lacked the intrigue and
excitement of the one held four years earlier. No longer plagued by
Stevenson's refusal to declare himself a candidate, the party gave him
its endorsement on the first ballot. When a controversy over the choice
of a vice-presidential candidate—Kefauver or Iohn F. Kennedy-
threatened to erupt into a divisive battle, Lawrence joined Stevenson
and Finnegan in advocating an open convention ballot. In spite of Ken-
nedy’s youthful appeal and considerable pressure from his father, Law-
rence rejected his bid. His old fear of Catholic candidates, according
to Genevieve Blatt and many others, pushed him into the Kefauver
camp. Local Catholic politicians, including himself, had won elec-
tions, but no evidence existed to indicate that the voters were any
more ready than in 1928 to support one for national office. By sup-
porting Kefauver, Lawrence was also fulfilling his part of a deal he
had made earlier in the year: Stevenson supporters would accept Ke-
fauver as vice-presidential nominee if the expensive primary fights
could be discontinued.“

Pennsylvania joined in the Eisenhower landslide, giving the presi-
dent 6oo,ooo more votes than the Stevenson-Kefauver ticket. For the
second consecutive time, Lawrence had been instrumental in engi-
neering the nomination of the Democratic national candidates — and
by all accounts he relished his efforts at kingmaking—but unfortu-
nately, his would-be king was not embraced by the American people.
Lawrence was without question one of the major powers in the Demo-
cratic party, but he had been unable to do the thing that gave him
the most joy—win the election. The one consolation was that ”in
America you get the chance to try it again, four years later. And we
will be ready,” he predicted.“

l 9 5 9 — l 9 6 3
Return to Harrisburg

Lawrence's smashing sixty-thousand-vote mayoralty victory in 19 57
seemed to signal the highlight of an illustrious career. Iohn Drew,
the most capable of his Republican opponents, presented only token
opposition; the remainder of the Democratic ticket won with equal
ease. Democrats controlled virtually every elected position in the
city and Allegheny County and held the local judiciary, the governor-
ship, and a U.S. Senate seat. The redevelopment of the city was well
under way, with a number of projects nearing completion. Awards
and praise from the national media and local and national organiza-
tions were bestowed on the ”Renaissance mayor” almost weekly. He
and Aldolph Schmidt spent a great deal of time traveling to other cities
to tell the story of Pittsburgh's rebirth. The trips, which he thoroughly
enjoyed, were a testament to the remarkable successes in Pittsburgh,
but they reminded Lawrence of his own personal triumphs. He often
commented in his talks on his modest youth, living at Pittsburgh's
now completely redeveloped Point. A most poignant reminder oc-
curred when the two men spoke at Boston's historic Faneuil Hall.
Schmidt recalled that on the train back to Pittsburgh, Lawrence was
quiet for a long while. ”And finally he turned to me and said, ’To think,
with my beginnings [that] I would live to speak in Faneuil Hall.’ And
tears began to come out of his eyes. It was one of the great moments
of his life/'1 The sixty-eight-year-old mayor, now considered the se-
nior statesman among urban political leaders, could conclude his
career by placing the finishing touches on the redevelopment of the
city he loved so much and by accepting the accolades of public offi-
cials, the media, and citizens throughout the country. His last four
years as mayor, or an additional four if he so chose, would be his
swan song in public life.

339

Growing Up l>

collared, short-sleeved shirts and slacks reported that they were going
to a United Mine Workers picnic in Indiana Township. Lawrence ex-
ploded. ”Listen,” he commanded, ”when you speak to the miners or
visit with them, look like a public oflicial, not like one of them. They
expect you to look like a public official/'21

His formality even extended into his home life, according to his
daughter. ”I never saw him sit in my house without a shirt and tie
and coat on. Once in a while on a hot summer day, he might sit on
the front porch or in the back yard without his coat on but he had
his tie on. As far as sports shirts were concerned, he might have owned
two.”-"-2 In later life Lawrence retained a close relationship with sev-
eral blue-collar political cronies and continued to enjoy the activities
of his youth—baseball, football, and boxing—but the style was strictly
formal.

Both teacher and pupil strove to transcend their blue-collar back-
grounds, but each struggled in different ways to improve working-
class conditions. Legal counsel and legislative action were Brennen’s
vehicles for redressing the ills of the industrial system. Politics for
him was an enjoyable pastime, but, perhaps because of the Republi-
can domination of western Pennsylvania, he never viewed it as an
effective method of reform. Lawrence, who ”grew up in a law office
but never had the chance to study law . . . came up on the political
side instead of the legal side/'23 Thus, while he held deep sympathies
for the labor movement throughout his life, he could and frequently
did oppose organized labor or labor leaders if it seemed politically wise.
He viewed political action as the best means to improve working-
class lives.

Lawrence's propensity for hard work, no doubt instilled in him
by his mother, was certainly reinforced by Brennen. "T he hours were
terrible. That's where I learned to work. We never left the oEice.”-"-4
A bachelor with no family responsibilities, Brennen would work along-
side his associates from 7:oo A.M. to 6:30 P.M., then remain in the of-
fice to greet political workers in an attempt to breathe life into an
all but dead Democratic organization. ”Lawrence aped Brennan's Beau
Brummell style, and until he was thirty-two heeded Brennen’s ad-
monition that a man could not ’wive and thrive’ in the same year/'25
It may be coincidental, but Lawrence married only after Brennen’s
death.

The Brennen-Lawrence association lasted for nearly two decades,
developing into a father-son type of relationship. Contemporaries of
Lawrence often referred to him as Dave “Brennen” Lawrence.” He
later named his first son Brennen and kept a portrait of his old men-

13

340 <1 Don't call me boss

Those who considered Lawrence near the end of his political and
governmental career, however, counted on neither his vitality nor
his commitment to the Democratic party. Within six months of his
victory over Iohn Drew, he started along a new career path that would
return him to the scene of his earlier legislative triumphs and politi-
cal tragedy.

Following on the heels of the 1954 victory and a gradual but dis-
tinct shift in registrations away from the GOP, I958 seemed like a
Democratic year. Perhaps as a result, the scramble for the Democratic
nomination for governor began earlier than usual. The contenders
were: William McClelland, the Pittsburgh coroner; Mayor Richard-
son Dilworth of Philadelphia; Iames Knox, Allegheny County con-
troller; Iudge Michael Musmanno of the Pennsylvania Supreme Court;
and Lieutenant Governor Roy Furman. Of these, the two with most
support were Dilworth and Furman. But Dilworth did not have the
backing of the Philadelphia machine, and many party leaders consid-
ered him too liberal. Furman, on the other hand, was not acceptable
to Governor George Leader, who was running for the U.S. Senate. Yet
none of the other candidates had enough support to be a compromise
choice.

In spite of an early statement that he considered Dilworth ”the
most colorful and capable of those mentioned,” Lawrence had followed
his customary practice of waiting to see which candidate could gen-
erate enough support to carry the party. Now, anxious to forestall
a primary battle, he called a meeting in Harrisburg of party leaders,
including Ioe Barr, the state chairman,- Michael Lawler, Lackawanna
County chairman; Bill Green, Philadelphia County chairman; Iim
Clark; and Dilworth. The meeting proved more volatile than anyone
had expected.

Lawrence, Barr, and Lawler, who could be counted upon to side
with the two Philadelphia leaders, remained relatively quiet. ”Green
and Clark,” Leader's executive secretary, David Randall, later stated,
”were vehement against Dilworth and vented their vehemence on
Leader.” The governor, following a technique in handling Green which
he had successfully used in the past, accepted the verbal abuse with-
out protest. ”Periodically during Leader's administration,” Randall ex-
plained, ”when he wanted to do something Green would not approve,
Leader would have Green up to the mansion, tell him what was pro-
posed, and then be srnit hip and thigh by Green into the wee hours
of the morning. Green would exact some price and Leader would then
go off and do what he proposed. The technique worked because Green

Return to Harrisburg l> 341

always provided a united Philadelphia delegation in the House (30
votes) and Senate (8 votes) for Leader's proposals/'2

Green's attack lasted nearly two hours and convinced Dilworth
that ”if Leader would not stand up to Green, he would not stand up
and fight for Dilworth as a gubernatorial candidate.” Resigning his
position as mayor to run with a man he considered ”weak-kneed”
would be too great a price to pay. Dilworth left the meeting and
phoned Natalie Saxe, his executive secretary, to inform her that he
couldn't run with a man who wouldn't stand up to pressure. If he
couldn't win the endorsement on his own, he would not run. He would
not oppose the party by running on an independent Leader-Dilworth
ticket. The meeting broke up with no resolution of the dilemma.3

As time drew near for the policy committee meeting, it became
clear that the situation had not changed. The only candidate who ap-
peared to have a chance to win the support of a majority of the com-
mittee, Furman, was unacceptable to Leader. Delegates began to speak
openly of dumping Leader to enable them to put together an accept-
able slate of candidates. One other name, however, began to be men-
tioned as the only candidate around whom all members of the party
could unite: David Lawrence. In Pittsburgh, Iack Robin, now execu-
tive vice-president of a Philadelphia urban redevelopment organiza-
tion, met with Lawrence and Walter Giesey for dinner at the Carlton
House Restaurant. Robin produced a list of questions. ”Who can unite
the Democratic Party? Bring organized labor together? Attract the in-
dependents? Get the Iewish vote? . . .” Lawrence looked at the list and
responded, ”That’s what we have been trying to find out.” ”But it's
you Dave. You're the one who can do it,” Robin answered. The old
pro was stunned. ”His face actually went stark white for a moment,”
said Robin. If Lawrence were actually shocked by the suggestion, he
quickly recovered. He emphatically set it aside, indicating that he
was too old and didn't really want it. Earlier, in response to a ques-
tion by Harrisburg reporters as to whether he could, under any cir-
cumstances, see himself as a candidate for governor, he insisted,
”None, indeed. I am devoted to this program in Pittsburgh. A lot de-
pends upon me. I don't say this egotistically, but I have been, on one
angle of it, the key person organizing it. . . . I can't conceive of any
situation where I would walk away from it.”4

Leader meanwhile had suggested Lawrence to several associates,
indicating that he would be willing to run with the mayor of either
of the state's largest cities. Lawrence was also being discussed as a
possible candidate with increasing frequency among Philadelphia

342 <l Don’t call me boss

leaders, but he continued to resist. Matthew McCloskey, a power in
the party in Philadelphia, meeting with Lawrence in Washington,
D.C., to sound him out, received an unequivocal answer. ”I am not
going to run. . . . You and I have been friends a long time. I don't want
you to [support] any such policy as this; under no circumstances. I
will be furious and I'll kill it right in the bud. I am not going to run/'5

The confused situation continued right up until the policy com-
mittee meeting on 3 March at Democratic headquarters on South
Third Street in Harrisburg. Lawrence spoke vigorously for Knox as
compromise candidate, but the Leader, Green, and Dilworth camps
continued to resist. Musmanno and McClelland meanwhile remained
on the sidelines hoping lightning would strike. It was Leader, accord-
ing to several sources, who first mentioned the name of Lawrence
openly when he indicated that he was willing to run with any one
of three men—Dilworth, Attorney General Thomas McBride, or Law-
rence. The meeting dragged on for five hours. Then several of the prin-
cipals, including Dilworth, Green, and Lawrence, excused themselves
to go to the rest room. The atmosphere there was apparently con-
ducive to compromise, and a deal was struck. Dilworth took himself
out of the race in return for Green's agreement to support him for
reelection as mayor.6

Dilworth’s withdrawal left Lawrence as the only possible strong
candidate. The man who had built his political career on seeking
consensus to avoid internal disputes was caught on his own election
principles. As he had done thirteen years earlier, he raised numerous
objections to his candidacy: age, unfinished work in Pittsburgh, and
religion. This time, however, Lawrence did not leave the meeting to
phone his wife before finally permitting his name to go before the
policy committee. He called Alyce immediately after receiving unani-
mous endorsement. The committee finished its work the following
day by endorsing Iudge Iohn Morgan Davis as candidate for lieuten-
ant governor. Davis, who resided in the eastern part of the state, was
selected to provide geographic and religious balance to the ticket.’

The Republicans had just as much difficulty in selecting a can-
didate as did the Democrats. The bright and persistent three-term
governor of Minnesota, Harold Stassen, armounced his candidacy early
in the year. Twice an unsuccessful candidate for his party's nomina-
tion for president, Stassen had moved to the Keystone State to be-
come president of the University of Pennsylvania in 1948. In 19 53 he
became foreign policy adviser to President Eisenhower. A second an-
nounced candidate, William S. Livengood of Somerset County, had
served four terms as secretary of internal affairs. But the Republican

Return to Harrisburg [> 343

party ignored the experience of both Stassen and Livengood. To face
the Democratic party's most experienced professional, the Republi-
can old guard chose Arthur T. McGonigle, a self-made millionaire
from Reading who had served a brief term as chairman of the party's
state finance committee but had never run for elected office. His main
achievement was building the rundown Bachman Bakeries into the
largest pretzel manufacturing firm in the nation.

The Democratic party relaxed when McGonigle easily defeated
Stassen and Livengood in the Republican primary. ”Stassen was the
one candidate who could have pulled Republican, independent and
switch-over Democratic votes in November and beaten Lawrence.”3

The election of the Pittsburgh mayor, in spite of the political in-
experience and lack of voter recognition of his opponent, was far from
a certainty. McGonigle cleverly turned jokes about his business-
”the twisted candidate,” and ”the man with the dough”—to political
advantage by flooding the state with hundreds of thousands of minia-
ture pretzel pins. By midsummer he was no longer an unknown. More
serious were the questions regarding Lawrence's candidacy. The effects
of his age, his religion, and his image as a political boss on the voters
were all unknown quantities.

The vigor with which Lawrence campaigned answered any doubts
about his physical stamina. He began three weeks before Labor Day,
campaigning in thirteen traditionally Republican counties. By No-
vember he had spoken in all sixty-seven counties on more than one
occasion and had delivered a number of statewide radio and televi-
sion addresses. The tactic, which he had perfected years before, of
attending a rally for a few moments, making brief comments, then
rushing off to another similar meeting enabled him to appear before
a number of groups on any one visit to a county. In October he aver-
aged ten appearances per day. By election day, according to one esti-
mate, he had spoken at more than five hundred gatherings.

McGonigle made no reference to Lawrence's age or religion but
struck out again and again at ”political boss” Lawrence, the Pittsburgh
wage tax, and the police scandal. In one address, for example, he
charged that ”Pittsburgh, under boss Lawrence, is wide open. Police
there are in league with the underworld. The rackets there are pour-
ing huge sums of money into the Democratic campaign.” He did not
need to add that the state, under Governor Lawrence, would become
a haven for illegal activities?

Lawrence, in refusing to respond to McGonigle’s charges—he
never once in the entire campaign mentioned his Republican oppo-
nent by name —followed a campaign strategy identical to the one he

344 <1 Don’t call me boss

used in his first run for mayor in 1945. He attempted to build the
broadest base possible, courting in particular the business and pro-
fessional communities. Traveling in an eight—year-old car driven by
his son Ierry, he spoke before chambers of commerce, managerial
groups, and professional organizations all over the state. The Phila-
delphia Democratic organization arranged meetings with bankers, cor-
porate leaders, and industrialists. Quite naturally, he pledged the same
type of cooperation he had fostered in Pittsburgh. He promised to ”call
upon the ablest citizens from every walk of life and every political
persuasion to participate in government service.” His work as mayor
of Pittsburgh, he frequently told audiences, had shown what public-
spirited citizens working together could do. Though he visited every
area of the state, he concentrated his efforts on the metropolitan cen-
ters of western and southeastern Pennsylvania, Harrisburg, and Erie
and the hard coal region of Scranton and Wilkes Barre. His senatorial
running mate, George Leader, was assigned to the bible belt, where
he was strong.”

Just as Lawrence's first mayoralty campaign was based on a seven-
point program of revitalization , he now offered a twenty-seven-point
plan to ’’bring Pennsylvania into the twentieth century.” Pennsylvania,
being larger than Pittsburgh, evidently required four times the number
of points. He promised something for everyone, including trafl-lc safety
and highway reforms, hospitalization and nursing care for the aged,
an agricultural development program, a system of college scholarships,
opposition to ”right to work” laws, and a fair employment practices
law. Lawrence pledged a businesslike administration and promised
to set up a blue-ribbon panel to study the state's budgeting and taxa-
tion system. He no doubt pleased business interests when he prom-
ised that any taxation policy would ensure that Pennsylvania's cor-
porations would remain competitive with those in neighboring states.
He also demonstrated considerable political courage when, in the
midst of the campaign, he indicated that, if elected, he intended to
retain the controversial sales tax instituted by Republican Governor
Fine. He later said he preferred it to a graduated or flat wage tax simi-
lar to the one he sponsored in Pittsburgh.

Throughout the campaign both sides brought in ”heavy ammuni-
tion” to convince the voters. Within a two-week period in October,
both President Eisenhower and Vice-President Nixon delivered ad-
dresses at the Syria Mosque in Lawrence's backyard. Former Presi-
dent Harry Truman repaid an old political debt to Lawrence by speak-
ing on his behalf in New Castle, and former Governor George Earle,

Return to Harrisburg [> 345

now a Republican, turned out to give his endorsement to his former
cabinet head.

On the night of the election, Lawrence gathered with his usual
band of Pittsburgh supporters to monitor the election results. As the
returns began to arrive, he sensed immediately that something was
wrong. The western Pennsylvania results, which arrived at party head-
quarters earliest, were far below anticipated results. Pittsburgh, which
gave the mayor a 68,000-vote majority, performed as expected, but
the county organization fell far short, giving him only a 54,000-vote
majority (Pittsburgh included). The slim margin proved much too
small to carry Leader, who lost in Allegheny County to Hugh Scott
by 33,000 votes, and it jeopardized Lawrence's chances as well.
Lawrence's anxiety eased somewhat when he received a call from Wil-
liam Green in Philadelphia informing him that he would carry that
county by 175,000 votes. At 2:45 A.M. he was finally able to make a
brief victory statement. A short time later, after phoning condolences
to Leader, he rapped his ring on the table, announced, ”That’s it,” and
left for home.

Although he had carried only seventeen of the sixty-seven coun-
ties, he had squeezed out a 76,000-vote win. Lawrence's coattails, how-
ever, were far too narrow to carry either Leader or many state legis-
lators to victory. Republican Hugh Scott outpolled Leader by 112,000
votes. State legislature results gave Lawrence a split General Assem-
bly to work with: Republicans retained control of the Senate, 26 to
24, but lost the House, 104 to 106. Democratic voters in both of the
state's largest cities, moreover, apparently ”cut” Leader, who finished
behind Lawrence by 45,000 and 86,000 votes in Philadelphia and Al-
legheny counties respectively. Leader and an aide later alleged that
Lawrence and Barr had made a deal with the Republicans —that their
supporters would vote for Scott—in order to protect the govemorship
and the power and patronage that went with it. When Lawrence tele-
phoned immediately after his victory, he offered Leader the position
of secretary of welfare. ‘'1 think he was sorry that the strategy went
as far as it did,” said Leader.“

The following day, Lawrence admitted to being mystified by the
election results. ”I found that I did not fare as well as expected in cer-
tain districts and industrial communities.” Of Leader's loss he said,
”The effort of Mr. Leader to put over a state wage and income tax
apparently stuck in people's minds.” He made no reference to any at-
tempts by party regulars to ”cut” or ”trade” Leader. Given time to re-
flect on the election results, however, Lawrence returned to his old

346 <1 Don’t call me boss

bugaboo, the Catholic issue. Appearing on ”Meet the Press” in Au-
gust I9 59, he said that he felt his religion had affected him adversely
in the upstate areas of Pennsylvania.”

Though a subsequent analysis of the 1958 election results indi-
cated that Lawrence's fears were unfounded, he continued to act as
if the issue were a formidable obstacle. Two independent studies
demonstrated that Lawrence benefited slightly from his religion in
the counties of high Catholic concentration. In low or moderately
Catholic counties, the relationship between voting patterns and reli-
gion was found to be negligible.”

The interim between Lawrence's election and his inauguration
as governor was perhaps the most sentimental period of his life. He
was feted almost daily by various groups—the Press Club, the Alle-
gheny Conference, the Chamber of Commerce, ward organizations,
and the Allegheny County Civic Club, which hosted a grand fare-
well dinner at the Penn Sheraton Hotel ballroom. Democrats from
all levels competed to pay homage to the party's ”favorite son” but
he was particularly moved when Republican Arthur Van Buskirk com-
mented at the Civic Club dinner: ”Of course Dave, there are those
Pennsylvanians, both in your party and mine, who look on you as
an old rufiian from across the mountains who has played too closely
with a lot of Republicans. The same good folks think I have been too
intimate with the Democrats. Fortunately, these criticisms don't
bother either of us because we know in good conscience that our joint
efforts in the Allegheny Conference have never been selfish but solely
for the community's welfare/'14

In expressing his pride in the city's achievements, Lawrence was
careful to acknowledge the support of various sectors of the commu-
nity. ”There can be no question that our accomplishments — and there
have been many—have been possible only because of our capacity
to unite every aspect of our community life, to work in cooperation
and fixed determination for wide-scale community development.” Or-
ganized labor, the business community, professional and technical
specialists, and Democratic politicians —particularly Commissioner
John Kane and the city council —were singled out for special praise. 15

Lawrence made it clear that he was reluctant to leave the city
and served notice that he intended to continue to influence local af-
fairs. He told the radio and television audience in his final state of
the city address, ”I will never lessen my interest in this community,
which is the birthplace of my mother and father, the place where I
was born and where I have lived all my life. In the months ahead. . . .
I will never have any doubts about where my roots are and where

Return to Harrisburg [> 347

my affections are. I will be proud to tell the world that I am still a
Pittsburgher— and always will be.” The city council received a quick
and clear message in late November when, perhaps testing what they
perceived to be a new independence, they voted six to three against
an amusement tax the mayor favored. It was not revealed what Law-
rence said at a private caucus the following day, but a chastened coun-
cil provided the usual nine to zero vote in favor of the ordinance on
a second vote. In presenting an austerity budget to the council in mid
December, he let it be known that even though he would ”be on assign-
ment for the next four years,” he expected his proposals to be imple-
mented. Finally, while he praised his successor, Council President
Thomas Gallagher, he let it be known that he intended to participate
in the selection of the city's next full-term mayor.“ Indeed, less than
one month after he left the city, he named several acceptable candi-
dates. Gallagher was not on the list.

V

The heavy snowfall that covered the city of Harrisburg on 20 ]anu-
ary I9 5 9 caused the cancellation of the five-hour inaugural parade but
failed to dim the spirits of thousands of politicians and well-wishers
who jammed the hotels and bars to celebrate the installation of the
state's first Roman Catholic and oldest governor. Mostly Democrats
from western Pennsylvania, they had special cause for revelry. The
ceremony, to be held in the State Farm Show arena, was not only the
crowning of their leader of forty years but the first time in the his-
tory of Pennsylvania that a Democrat had succeeded a Democrat in
the state's highest office. In spite of the snowfall, Lawrence arrived
at the arena precisely on time, attired in morning clothes and a high
silk hat. He was accompanied by Alyce, their three children, and sev-
eral grandchildren. The oath of office was administered by a former
Lawrence choice for governor, State Supreme Court Iustice Charles
Alvin Iones.

Lawrence's inaugural address, delivered before a cheering crowd
of five thousand, indicated that his administration was to be similar
to his four terms in Pittsburgh. He devoted nearly half of his speech
to the problems that were to be given priority in his administration.
Identifying a number of economic issues related to the national eco-
nomic recession of 1958, he promised a broad effort to foster an eco-
nomic and industrial renaissance. ”We will have a policy of action—
action not by government alone, but by industry, by finance, by labor,
by community organizations so that the resources of Pennsylvania
are mobilized before it is too late.” The second issue, which he had

348 <1 Don't call me boss

raised a number of times during his campaign, was taxes. Faced with
a $141 million deficit left by the Leader administration and nearly $400
million in state bond obligations, he again indicated that new taxes
would be required to continue to operate the state government. He
asked both parties to help. ”I hope we can avoid a Democratic tax
program or a Republican tax program, a govemor’s tax program, a
House tax program, a Senate tax program. I hope we can achieve . . .
a Pennsylvania tax program approved by all/'17 To achieve that goal
he had appointed a bipartisan Tax Advisory Committee (the Hood-
Kennedy committee) to study budgeting problems and supply tax rec-
ommendations within the month.

Lawrence and his wife divided the evening between two gala balls
attended by nearly eight thousand people. The governor, who led grand
marches under the crossed swords of the plume-helmeted Penn-
sylvania National Guard at both festivities, clearly enjoyed himself.
He and Mrs. Lawrence were described as radiant as they danced the
”Govemor’s Waltz” at each affair, and they remained at the Scottish
Cathedral ballroom to dance and greet old friends and supporters until
11:30 P.M.

Mrs. Lawrence must have felt like Cinderella when she returned
to the ninety-five-year-old Govemor’s Mansion on Front Street. The
huge structure, badly in need of repair and renovation, was dark and
drafty. More significantly, Alyce Lawrence was used to living in a
house full of friends and relatives. In Harrisburg she would have only
the household help. ”It had to be one of the saddest days of my young
life,” her grandson David Donahoe related. ”The day he was sworn
as governor we all went down [to Harrisburg] and the next day we
were going home. The govemor’s mansion that they lived in for a
year was this horrible, big old house in downtown Harrisburg. It was
huge. It had to be torn down, it was so bad. But I remember leaving,
and how horribly sad she was, because the one thing she had in Pitts-
burgh, if he was away, was everyone else. Now we were all leav-
ing. . . . It was a terribly sad occasion/'23 Alyce Lawrence endured her
time in Harrisburg, becoming what one reporter called the ”most
inaccessible of First Ladies.”13 Four years later, when her husband took
a position in Washington, she refused to accompany him and retum-
ed instead to her South Aiken Avenue home in Pittsburgh.

The new governor, although he shared his wife's dislike of Har-
risburg, had no time for feelings of sadness. While his family was say-
ing goodbye to Mrs. Lawrence before leaving for home, he was already
at work. With his usual twelve- to fourteen-hour working day, he was
establishing the priorities and routines for his administration. He

Return to Harrisburg [> 349

began the day by meeting with his entire cabinet, nearly all of whom
were holdovers from the Leader administration. (Pittsburghers Anne
Alpem, David Kurtzman, and Park Martin were the most notable
newcomers.) In a two-hour meeting open to the press, he delivered
a stern message to his top aides. He would not tolerate the type of
administration that had led to scandals during his predecessor's gov-
emorship. (He might have added those that brought down the Earle
administration in 1938 or plagued Pittsburgh during his entire thir-
teen years as mayor.) ”I will insist upon efficiency and honesty. We
must perform the services offered by the State government better than
ever before. . . . Whenever any of you has the slightest suspicion of
dishonesty on the part of any employee, . . . I want you to inform
me . . . immediately.” No doubt recalling the damage done to the ad-
ministration by Attorney General Margiotti during his first stay in
Harrisburg, he made it clear that differences would not be tolerated.
”If at any time you find yourself in such serious disagreement with
these [the govemor’s] goals and procedures that you cannot give this
administration your unstinted loyalty, then you should no longer be
a part of the administration.”19

Lawrence then turned to a problem that was to receive highest
priority during the early months of his adrr1inistration—balancing
the budget. The administration and the blue-ribbon tax panel had al-
ready begun its search for new sources of revenue, he told his cabinet
heads. ”However, until we find a solution to our fiscal problems, I
have no alternative than to insist on austerity.” There was to be a
hiring freeze on all but the most vital positions, expenditures were
to be reduced, and no equipment or supplies were to be purchased
without approval from the office of the governor. (He set an example
by canceling an order for a new official car, retaining instead one with
more than Ioo,ooo miles.) Workers in every department were expected
to perform the job for which they had been hired. ”If there is any per-
son in the employ of the state not willing to work and work hard,
he had better leave now. We will not tolerate . . . any five percenters
or ten percenters or whatever they are.” Non-Pittsburghers among the
group were no doubt startled at the abruptness with which the meet-
ing came to an end when Lawrence stood up and clapped his hands.
It was a signal they would have no difficulty recognizing over the
next four years.2°

Later, after the administration gained control of its fiscal prob-
lems, cabinet heads were given the same degree of freedom that Law-
rence had allowed when he was mayor. Members of the administra-
tion soon found out that much of the day-to-day business of the state

14 <1 Don’t call me boss

tor in his office throughout his career. Lawrence frequently acknowl-
edged his debt to his predecessor, but their long relationship did not
result in a strengthened Democratic party.

Brennen treated his own involvement in politics in an almost ad
hoc, gentleman-statesman manner. It was a pragmatic, cooperative
approach to politics that Lawrence learned to emulate. From the time
he became Democratic county chairman in 1901, Brennen, realizing
that he stood no chance of upsetting the Republican machine, followed
a policy of cooperation with its leaders. He seldom challenged the
Republican majority, apparently content with the minority positions
legally available to his party. One member of the inner circle, who
later became a U.S. senator, explained: ”our organization was strictly
a bi-partisan affair. All the Democratic factions, and a large number
of the Republican leaders . . . wanted to be in on the Federal patron-
age. In those days, and in fact as long as the Democratic party was
in the minority, there were always Democratic leaders more interested
in picking up patronage crumbs from the Republican table than they
were in winning elections/'27 The Democrats, for example, ran no can-
didate for mayor in 1902, 1913, or 1917. Only when they could mount
a ”fusion ticket” such as reformer George Guthrie in 1905 did Bren-
nen’s party conduct an aggressive political campaign. To the dismay
of some, particularly during the 1920s, Lawrence adopted Brennen’s
pragmatic brand of politics, with similar results.

It is difficult to overestimate the Brennen’s influence on Law-
rence’s political career. He provided important training, instilled
elements of a political philosophy, and taught his protégé a practical
approach to the political world. Other factors during Lawrence's for-
mative years, however, also provided important lessons that were
apparent in his later actions. The first three decades of the twentieth
century were particularly volatile in Pittsburgh politics. Republican
boss Christopher Magee’s death in 1901 initiated a period of intraparty
fighting that raged from Pittsburgh to Harrisburg and continued for
nearly a third of a century. Mayors were ”ripped” from office by a rival
machine headed by state boss Matthew Quay. A local reform admin-
istration, supported by the Citizens’ League and other independent
groups, won election in 1906, and a series of sweeping municipal re-
forms pushed through both houses of the Pennsylvania General As-
sembly by a coalition of upper-class businessmen and professionals
was initiated in 1911.28 Meanwhile Republican bosses, including Ed-
ward Bigelow, William Magee, and later Iames Coyne, William L.
Mellon, and Charles Kline, all vied for control of the city until the
collapse of the Republican machine in 1933.

350 <l Don’t call me boss

government would be conducted by Lawrence's able aide, Walter Gie-
sey, another transfer from Pittsburgh. As long as a department per-
formed to expectations, however, little interaction with the execu-
tive office was expected or required.

The governor followed his cabinet meeting with a brief press con-
ference with journalists from across the state assigned to Harrisburg.
As he had in Pittsburgh, he intended to cultivate the goodwill of the
press by offering easy access to the chief executive. Unless urgent
matters interfered, biweekly press conferences would be conducted.
Faced with a generally friendly press, Lawrence usually enjoyed the
mild give—and-take of these early-moming sessions. But he immedi-
ately established one ground rule that was never violated.

Duke Kaminsky of the Philadelphia Bulletin was the most
sarcastic of all the newspaper guys on capitol hill. He liked to
dig, and the first day that Governor Lawrence was there and
called a press conference, Duke came in and said, ”Well what's
boss Lawrence going to do now?” Lawrence heard him and said,
”Duke, whoever told you I was boss? Who did I ever boss? Can
you find me a person whom I ever bossed?” Then he said, ”Now
let's get things straight right now. I am not a boss, and have
never been a boss, and if that tenn is ever used again in my
presence, you'll never be at another news conference.” From
that point on, Duke knew who the hell was boss.“

Kaminsky and the others learned that first day the lesson Lawrence
had taught Pittsburgh Post-Gazette reporter Iohn Iones fifteen years
earlier. The term boss was never uttered again at a press conference
and seldom appeared in reports filed by the Harrisburg correspondents.

Late in the afternoon of his first day in office, Lawrence, in an
attempt to build bipartisan cooperation, met with the four top leaders
of each party in the legislature. He knew full well from his earlier
Harrisburg experience that there was a big difference between ”a 9
to o majority in city council and an even split in the legislature.”
Stressing that his door would always be open to members of the House
and Senate, he heaped on the honey. ”All legislators will be treated
courteously and with consideration because their problems are the
problems of the people and everybody must work together. I want
to try to inject some of the Pittsburgh spirit [of cooperation] into the
state legislature.” During the next four years he spent almost as much
time with Republican leaders Harvey Taylor and Albert W. Iohnson
as he did with the Democrats. The ability to get along with the op-

Return to Harrisburg l>

position, learned decades ago in the offices of Billy Brennen, would
again pay dividends. Leader's long tax battle with the legislature re-
affirmed for Lawrence the wisdom of cooperation. ”We have profited
from the mistakes of the previous setup,” he said. When his tax pro-
gram appeared in jeopardy, he was asked how hard he intended to
push to ensure its passage. ”I’m not going to sacrifice the program
by doing any pushing at all,” he replied. ”My job is to try to get the
legislative agreement on a tax program. I'm not going to be obstinate.”
Lawrence's efforts brought lasting results, for his four years in office
were characterized by a remarkable degree of cooperation.”

Aided by the youthful (thirty-four-year-old) Giesey and a highly
talented administrative staff and cabinet, the administration wasted
no time in attempting to carry out Lawrence's campaign program.
Within six weeks of his inauguration, the governor submitted a bi-
ennial budget to the General Assembly and recommended a tax pro-
gram to finance it. In addition, more than seventy bills to carry out
parts of his program were introduced during his first fifty days in
office. They included registration and regulation of lobbyists, pro-
hibition of billboards along interstate highways, stringent air pollu-
tion bills, a strengthening of the Fair Employment Practices Act, and
a requirement for smallpox vaccination of preschool children. He
also outlined a tough new highway safety program to crack down on
speeding and other traffic violations. The distribution of bills and his
pronouncements on matters of priority made it clear that three con-
cerns would dominate the Lawrence administration: fiscal responsi-
bility, highway traffic safety, and a number of social issues, several
of which had received attention during the Little New Deal of the
Earle administration.

Governor Lawrence's twelve—member Tax Advisory Committee
was not only bipartisan; its members included representatives from
business, organized labor, and industry and governmental officials
from Erie, Altoona, and Philadelphia.” The huge deficit from the
Leader administration and mounting obligations related to the state's
weak economic position made the group's task formidable. By I Feb-
ruary they submitted a report recommending tax increases of $400
million within two years, including an increase in the sales tax from
3 to 3.5 percent, an extension of the tax to cover items hitherto ex-
cluded, and new levies on many consumer items, personal property,
and natural gas. A cigarette tax of I¢ per pack would fund the $120
million Korean War veteran's bonus. The committee recommended
neither a wage nor an income tax, which Lawrence had pledged dur-
ing his campaign not to impose. The governor submitted the plan,

351

352 <1 Don't call me boss

virtually without change, to the legislature along with a record $1.9
billion two-year budget.

To carry the tax program through the General Assembly, Law-
rence reinstituted the ”educational meetings” so effective during his
term as secretary of the Commonwealth. Democratic senators and
representatives were called in during the evening hours for a ”chat”
with the governor. House and Senate leaders Ioe Barr, Charles Weiner
of Philadelphia, and Hiram Andrews held frequent caucuses to en-
sure the support of reluctant party members. Lawrence's old ally Barr
was particularly effective.“

Lawrence's best efforts on behalf of the tax package were reserved
for lobbying with the Republican leadership. He met with the four
men many times between I February and I 5 April, when the bulk of
the program was actually passed. Perhaps indicative of his fiscal con-
servatism was the strong relationship he developed with the most
conservative member of the Republican group, the House minority
leader, Albert W. Iohnson of Smethport. Although the two differed
on almost every other matter, they formed an alliance on fiscal cgn-
cems that lasted throughout Lawrence's four years in office. Iohnson’s
support was particularly vital even though the Democrats controlled
the House by a slim majority. Conservative Democrats representing
rural areas frequently sided with the Republican minority on fiscal
matters, and thus bipartisan support was required for passage of any
tax bill.

When the 3. 5 percent sales tax bill appeared pennanently stalled,
Lawrence agreed to remove beer, liquor, and used automobiles from
the package. The revised version was pushed through the General As-
sembly on I 5 April with all Democrats from both houses voting yes.
Five ranking Republicans in the Senate joined the Democrats to give
the bill a twenty-six to twenty-three majority.

The measure, however, provided only 56 percent of the $400
million needed to solve the state's financial problem. The amount
was only slightly more than that needed to pay for the deficit from
the previous administration. When opposition from special interest
groups threatened the remainder of the package, Lawrence called in
leaders of nearly 150 organizations dependent upon state funds and
told them: ”It is the duty of those who need state aid to get across
the needs of your causes. There has never been a body here to lobby
for the taxes to fulfill your needs.” He indicated that nonessential
items such as aid to colleges, hospitals, and libraries would all suffer
if his program failed to win approval, and he warned that he would
not permit further deficit funding. ”My own sense of responsibility

Return to Harrisburg [> 353

will forbid me from funding a deficit. Hard as the choice may be, it
will be the . . . moral duty of the governor to assign a priority to the
direct appropriations of the Commonwealth against the preferred ap-
propriations.” Later he told the Municipal Forum of New York: ”I
proudly lay claim to the political philosophy of the liberal, a moder-
ate liberal, perhaps. . . . But, I am equally proud to call myself a fis-
cal conservative/'25

The success of the tactic became evident when senators and rep-
resentatives were besieged with letters and telegrams in support of the
additional taxation. Particularly effective were the powerful Pennsyl-
vania State Education Association, with more than sixty—five thousand
members, associations of hospital doctors and nurses, and the Asso-
ciation of Library Trustees, with three thousand members through-
out the state.

The governor battled, cajoled, and pleaded with both Republicans
and Democrats during the next several months. He agreed to reduce
some of the business taxes in return for an increase in the sales tax
to 4 percent. He also smoothed over a defection by half of the power-
ful Philadelphia bloc by agreeing to name a Philadelphia representa-
tive to a Senate-House conference committee empowered to write
a tax bill in final fonn. At other times he applied public and private
pressure through the use of the media, meetings with interest groups,
and the party caucus. His soft talk and barter approach occasionally
gave way to anger and bullying, as when he threatened to add stifi
new regulations to his lobbying bill unless special interest groups
ceased applying ”undue pressure” to members of the legislature. By
mid August there were enough new tax levies to reduce the deficit
by more than $100 million and put the government on a pay-as-you-
go basis. In addition, in order to improve the business climate in the
state, he reduced business's share of the state's tax burden by nearly
25 percent over the next two years.

The Lawrence administration began with an austerity program
designed to reduce government expenditures and bring the financial
crisis under control. The situation, however, was never considered
permanent. The 1959-61 budget presented the first armual billion-dollar
plan for government spending. Subsequent budgets were nearly as
large. In all, the state spent a record $4 billion during Lawrence's four
years in office. Nevertheless, the government continued to operate
in the black, for each new program was matched by a tax program
to pay for it. When the General Assembly balked at imposing new
revenues, as it did over a $5 million program to repair hazardous
schools, the governor vetoed the program rather than ”risk an unbal-

354 <1 Don’t call me boss

anced budget/'26 By the end of his term, he had not only eliminated
the deficit but turned in a $16.6 million surplus for the fiscal year
1961-62. It was the first balanced budget in seventeen years.

V

In spite of his conservative fiscal policy, Lawrence launched the
most comprehensive program of social legislation since the days of
the Earle administration. Following a year-long battle with real estate
interests, a F air Housing Act, which prohibited discrimination in the
sale or rental of multiple-dwelling housing units and created a Human
Relations Commission for investigation and enforcement, became law
in February 1961. He created a Govemor’s Council on Economic De-
velopment, which eventually recommended programs to attract indus-
try to Pennsylvania and legislative measures to alleviate the economic
problems of the working class. Administration-sponsored legislation
established a liberal comprehensive minimum wage, improved bene-
fits for workers injured on the job, and increased payments for un-
employment compensation and for disability due to job-related ill-
nesses. Child labor laws were strengthened to include additional
industries and large commercial farms and provide protection for chil-
dren of migratory farm laborers.

The Lawrence program of social legislation was aided by the nar-
row election victory in 1960, which produced a paper-thin margin in
the House of 109-101 and a 2 5-2 5 tie in the Senate. Again working both
sides of the political aisle, Lawrence pushed a program of medical
care for the needy over age sixty-five and a revised dependent child
care act that forced county governments to assume protective respon-
sibility for needy children. When state legislation proved inadequate,
he traveled to Washington to lobby for legislation at the federal level.
In Ianuary 1960, for example, he testified before the U.S. Senate to
urge enactment of a bill to provide additional funds for urban renewal
and public housing. He also asked for an increase in the funds allot-
ted for replacement housing and moving expenses for citizens dis-
placed by urban renewal. A short time later, when he testified before
a White House Commission on Aging in favor of the controversial
Forand Bill designed to provide medical care for the aged, the seventy-
one—year-old governor showed that his fiscal conservatism applied to
the federal as well as the state government. ”I am convinced also
that one way of meeting the need is to build improvements into the
social security system. Such new provisions can be paid for through
small premium payments made through the working life of the in-
dividual.”27

Return to Harrisburg l> 355

The Lawrence administration successfully supported a wide range
of other programs including aid to public libraries, funds for a state
park and conservation program (Project 70), reforms to the state
hospital system, and approval of race track betting. On the two clos-
est to his heart, however, the governor could report only mixed re-
sults. Ever since the death of his sons, he had expressed an interest
in highway safety. Formerly a fast driver himself, he rarely got be-
hind the wheel after the accident, although his poor eyesight was at
least partly the reason. As mayor he had demanded stringent enforce-
ment of traffic laws even during the period when the police seemed
to be enforcing little else. In mid 1946, at a Governor's Conference
on Highway Safety, he issued his first call for strict laws. ”I would
like to see the police given the power to take the reckless driver to
the cell block,” he said, adding that he also advocated permanent revo-
cation of licenses for habitual offenders and drunk drivers.” During
the next several years Lawrence attended national and state highway
safety conferences and repeatedly called for tougher state laws. As
a candidate for governor, he had made the need for greater highway
safety a part of his campaign, advocating the use of radar to catch
speeding drivers, but the issue apparently concerned few other Penn-
sylvanians and, except when his son Ierry was arrested for speeding,
hardly drew any notice. Four months after becoming governor, he pre-
sented a massive program for highway construction and stringent new
safety laws to the General Assembly. When the Republican-controlled
I959-—6o legislature handed Lawrence one of his few legislative defeats
by refusing to pass his bill, he issued an executive order to put the
measures into effect. The far-reaching thirteen-point program con-
tained the following measures:

a system of suspensions for violations of the motor code,
legalized use of radar to catch speeders;

periodic physical re-examination for drivers;

. traffic training schools for offenders;

chemical testing of suspected intoxicated drivers.

E"-‘>‘."’!°3“

”This program will make Pennsylvania foremost in the field of traffic
safety. . . . It can become the national model . . . for reducing accidents,
saving lives and lessening injuries/'29 To launch his program, Lawrence
reaffirmed a ”no-fix” ticket policy instituted by his predecessor, Gover-
nor Leader. Newspapers had a field day for the remainder of Lawrence's
administration announcing the names of prominent drivers arrested
for speeding or other moving violations. Serious injuries and traffic

356

<l Don’t call me boss

fatalities fell by 22 and 16 percent respectively during the final two
years of Lawrence's term.

Lawrence's other favorite project was educational refonn. Shortly
after becoming governor, he appointed the twenty-one-member Gov-
emor’s Committee on Education to study problems ”from kindergar-
ten through college” in Pennsylvania. The high-powered group visited
hundreds of schools, conducted extensive hearings, examined thou-
sands of school records and documents, and met with hundreds of
educational leaders from all over the nation. Following nearly a year
of intensive work, it presented Lawrence with one of the most com-
prehensive programs of educational reform ever produced:

I. a 50 percent increase in teachers’ salaries by 1970; tougher
teaching standards and training;

2. conversion of all state teacher colleges into liberal arts col-
leges; establishment of a system of community colleges in
all urban districts ;

3. creation of state scholarships for the top 5 percent of each
year's high school graduates;

4. establishment of a $1 million college loan fund,-

5. increased state subsidies to local school districts,-

6. incentive payments to districts with classes for emotionally
disturbed, gifted, or culturally deprived children;

7. minimum curriculum standards from kindergarten through
twelfth grade,-

8. consolidation of school districts with fewer than four thou-
sand students.3°

Nearly every one of the report's I45 proposals attracted both en-
thusiastic support and vehement opposition, but Lawrence accepted
the report in total. In a special appearance before a joint session of
the General Assembly, he called for bipartisan support, repeating a
phrase made famous during his successful battle to increase the state
sales tax. ”There should be no Govemor’s program, no Republican pro-
gram, no Democratic program.” Instead he urged a ”people’s program/'31
To generate support, Lawrence embarked on a brief statewide tour,
on which he was joined at one point by James B. Conant of Harvard
University. As expected, the cost of the program and the plan to con-
solidate school districts drew the most objections. Lawrence refused
to implement any of the salary or local subsidy proposals unless the
legislature passed companion funding bills to pay for the increased
costs. The House Republican leader, Albert W. Iohnson, who had de-

Return to Harrisburg [> 357

livered crucial GOP votes supporting the sales tax increase, this time
refused to help. The sales tax bill had merely enabled the govemment
to pay bills it was already obligated to pay. Tax legislation to support
the school program, on the other hand, gave state government entry
into what many considered the sacred territory of local government.
In Iohnson’s view, the two issues bore no similarity. When Lawrence
indicated that he would veto any education bills unless the General
Assembly voted the appropriate fl1I1ClS, most of the education commit-
tee's proposals died without benefit of legislative action.

The lone part that did pass, school district consolidation, rather
than providing the advantages of a quality education to all, resulted
in numerous court cases as community after community attempted
to delay or avoid its implementation. Though a small number of
mostly rural school districts did merge into larger units, most sys-
tems managed to forestall the action until the ”friendly” Scranton ad-
ministration produced an emasculated version of the act.

V

Harrisburg offered David Lawrence new challenges and worlds to
conquer, but it provided neither the satisfaction of his work in Pitts-
burgh nor the exhilaration he received from his political efiorts. He
and Alyce willingly abandoned the rundown Govemor’s Mansion in
Harrisburg to live in a state-owned home in nearby Indiantown Gap.
Where he lived was of little concern to him, for he left Harrisburg
at nearly every opportunity, defying any signs of advancing age. He
delivered nearly one thousand formal speeches during his govemor-
ship, seventy of them in major cities in the six months prior to the
1960 Democratic National Convention. During a typical three-day
period he visited eight cities, toured three state mental institutions,
attended several meetings of union officials, attempted to solve a po-
litical dispute in Philadelphia, gave a speech to the state APL-CIO
in Green Bay, Wisconsin, dedicated a tunnel, opened a fair in Pitts-
burgh, and attended a Little League banquet in Philadelphia. Law-
rence’s young grandson David Donahoe was a frequent companion.
”I spent summers with him in Harrisburg. We went to everything.
He traveled to various parts of the state and we went to fairs, to fu-
nerals and to political gatherings and tours.”3-°-

In addition to traveling to his many speaking engagements
throughout the state and beyond, Lawrence returned to Pittsburgh
nearly every weekend to catch up on the business of the Urban Re-
development Authority (he was still its chairman), to meet on Satur-
day momings with his successors in the mayor's office, and to conduct

358 <1 Don’t call me boss

business or play pinochle with party regulars at the Benedum-Trees
Building. Mrs. Lawrence occasionally accompanied him on his visits
to Pittsburgh, and three trips abroad during his four years as gover-
nor gave them both respite from the Harrisburg environment.” Two
shorter trips, however, one to Pittsburgh and the other to Los An-
geles, gave Lawrence his greatest satisfaction.

On 24 September 19 59, Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev visited
Pittsburgh as part of his highly publicized ten-day tour of the United
States. Lawrence, as governor of Pennsylvania, attended a luncheon
at the University of Pittsburgh and accompanied him on a tour of
the Mesta Machine Works in West Homestead. The two men ex-
changed quips during their walk through the plant, but Lawrence ex-
hibited no humor as he spoke at a luncheon for 4 50 community lead-
ers. Instead, he used the occasion to lecture the Communist party
chairman on the realities of American politics. ”To those who do not
know us well, we may seem a divided people,” he said, looking di-
rectly at Khrushchev.

We are not a one party nation. As everyone here knows, except
perhaps our guests from abroad, I do not belong to the Presi-
dent's political party. Next year in 1960, I will do everything I
can to convince my fellow citizens that the choice of my party
should be elected President rather than the candidate chosen
by the party now represented in the White House.

But as everyone here must know, in any grave crisis in our
foreign relations we are immediately as one with the Presi-
dent. . . . So I would like to re-emphasize what Chairman Khru-
shchev has heard wherever he has gone in this country. . . . In
America, politics stops at the water's edge. In his negotiations
with the statesmen of the world, President Eisenhower speaks
for a united country.

America will confidently follow where he leads.34

Lawrence attempted to impress upon his guest the American heri-
tage of freedom and democracy by calling his attention to Pennsyl-
vania’s historic sites. He wished he could show him Independence
Hall, the site where the constitution, ”our basic framework in self
government,” was drafted, or Gettysburg, ”where the cause of human
freedom triumphed forever in this nation over the cause of slavery
and human degradation.” One week later Lawrence wrote, ”I don't
know of anything I have ever done out of which I have ever gotten
more satisfaction. I felt my responsibility very keenly, due to the fact

Return to Harrisburg [> 359

that I was probably the highest ranking Democrat who was to have
the opportunity to tell Mr. Khrushchev the position of the Demo-
cratic Party. I felt it was especially important because the very next
day he was going into a meeting with the President at Camp David/'35

Khrushchev responded to Lawrence's comments in a somewhat
rambling forty-five minute address, acknowledging the unity of which
the governor spoke but pointing out that ”our people are [also] united.
They support the Communist party, the one party, but the best party
of all the parties in the world. . . . It is one party but it is better than
both of yours/'36 The two then exchanged further comments and ideas,
and Lawrence clearly enjoyed the repartee. It was the kind of politi-
cal infighting he had learned as a child, listening to the discussions
of his father and, later, Billy Brennen. Neither side gave any quarter,
nor was any expected. Lawrence seemed refreshed and exhilarated
by the experience. It lifted his spirits as he returned to Harrisburg
to resume the battle to pull the state out of its financial morass.

The govemor’s second major trip from Harrisburg had a more last-
ing impact on the nation than his Pittsburgh exchange with Khru-
shchev. The 1960 Democratic National Convention was viewed as
crucial by party leaders. The Republican party had held control of the
White House for eight years, and another Republican victory might
usher in a domination of the nation's highest office to match that of
the Roosevelt-Truman span. But the popular Eisenhower would not be
a candidate for another term, and the Democrats, if they could avoid
their usual internal divisions and select a strong candidate around
whom the various factions could unite, stood a chance of victory.

The Democratic party, balanced among a number of special in-
terest groups, produced its normal abundance of candidates. Hubert
Humphrey, the darling of the liberals, and the youthful john Kennedy,
who had nearly won the vice-presidental nomination in 19 56, battled
each other in selected primary elections across the nation. Stuart Sy-
mington, who incorrectly saw himself as the candidate of the city
bosses, remained in the wings hoping for a deadlock between the two
main contenders. He would be the most readily acceptable to all the
minority factions. The Senate majority leader, Lyndon Iohnson of
Texas, adopted the same strategy as Symington, relying on the anti-
Kennedy feelings of the South and the old-line New Deal operators
in the Northeast. Adlai Stevenson was again reluctant to run. Reporter
Theodore White called him ”uncertain, willing yet unwilling to be
President/'37 The possibility of another Stevenson draft in the event
of a deadlock would not disappear until the governor of Pennsylvania
armounced his choice on 12 Iuly.

Growing Up [>

It is unclear exactly how these dynamic events influenced David
Lawrence, but in a young man developing an intense interest in poli-
tics they must have generated great excitement. Both the power of
a well-organized machine and the disaster of intraparty fighting, regu-
larly reported in the city's press, no doubt, became obvious to him.
The Republican organization, in spite of numerous well-publicized
charges of corruption and feuds within the party, remained, with the
exception of the 1906-9 period, entrenched in power. Regardless of
scandals — such as those of 1911, which saw nearly 150 indictments for
graft brought against the entire Republican city council, and Mayor
William Magee charged with embezzling funds from the city trea-
sury——the well-honed Republican organization brought home winner
after winner in both the city and the county.

It became obvious to the young Lawrence that the lack of a well-
structured organization in his own party was a major factor in its
defeat at the polls. Almost immediately upon assuming the county
Democratic chairmanship in 1920, he experimented with the party
structure, reorganizing it to create a more responsive ward-level opera-
tion. He initiated other reforms following election defeats in 192 5 and
I929. Workers were recruited to fill every possible position, and by
1933 clear lines of command existed from ward committeemen through
ward chairmen to party chairman.”

Less obvious, although certainly apparent, were the long-term
debilitating effects of continuous intemecine warfare on the Repub-
lican machine. The Republicans, whether it was Magee and Flinn
battling Quay and Edward Bigelow in the first decade of the century
or Edward Kline challenging William Mellon and Coyne in the 19203,
fought their battles in public. They continued to win elections, but
the lack of harmony and the rampant corruption became well known.
Defections from the party occurred as early as I909. At first disgruntled
Republicans looked to reform groups such as the Civic Club and the
Voters’ League to correct the abuses within the system.” Later they
turned to the Democratic party as the best hope for reform.

The lessons Lawrence learned from the Republican intraparty
warfare and from several battles within his own party early in his
career burned an indelible mark on his approach to party politics. For
nearly fifty years at the local, state, and national levels, he struggled
to avoid confrontations within the Democratic organization. He al-
ways viewed compromise and occasionally even capitulation as pref-
erable to conflict.

Attempts at political reform during the young Lawrence's for-
mative years probably also shaped his development. In 1906, Democrat

15

360 <1 Don’t call me boss

Lawrence, now the leader of the big-city bosses and one of the
most powerful national committeemen, played his usual waiting game
in the months prior to the convention, refusing to support any can-
didate until he was certain of his chances of victory. With a compro-
mise candidate a distinct possibility, an uncommitted Pennsylvania
delegation could play an important power-brokering role.

Though Lawrence's high regard for Stevenson was well known-
one reporter called it ”an almost youthful adoration”—the Kennedy
supporters did everything they could to dissuade him. Early in the
year a small group of Democratic leaders —— including Carmine Di Sapio
of New York, john Bailey of Connecticut, Iacob Arvey of Chicago,
Mike Di Salle of Ohio, Pat Brown of California, and Lawrence—had
conducted sporadic discussions. ”We would get together to talk about
the possibility of who could win. Winning was the main objective.
Personalities were secondary. . . . We [had] just had two losses in the
White House. . . . We decided that we could not go with another loss.
Kennedy appeared to be the type that would represent the philoso-
phy of the Northeast.” Lawrence immediately raised the issue of Ken-
nedy’s religion. In the gubernatorial election, Lawrence had won by
a much narrower margin than he had expected. ”Having just come
through that,” he later observed, ”I figured, well, hell, he'll lose Penn-
sylvania sure.” The group, however, decided to support Kennedy and
pressured Lawrence to accept their decision. He refused, urging them
to wait for the results of the primaries.”

Lawrence's old political ally from Philadelphia, Matt McCloskey,
had made a second attempt to pry a Kennedy commitment from the
governor. At the request of Ioseph Kennedy, a longtime associate,
McClosky traveled to Harrisburg to ask the governor to ”come out
for lack early in the game.” Following a lengthy discussion, Lawrence
told him what he had told the city bosses: ”It’s too early; all you have
to do is get all the big political bosses to be for him and you'll ruin
him. Let him win a few primaries so that we know that is what the
people want and then we can vote for him/'39 Lawrence, as usual, was
waiting for a consensus to develop before he took a stand.

When McCloskey reported back to Ioe Kennedy, he was furious
and decided to pay a visit to Lawrence. ”I told his father the same
thing,” Lawrence recollected. ”Of course, he didn't like it either.” Law-
rence's concern had local implications as well. ”I was thinking—I was
governor and I had the House and didn't have the Senate, and I could
see losing a lot of these Dutch Democratic Counties—that I would
lose the legislature. And I didn't want that to happen because I had
two more years in Harrisburg and it was tough enough the way it had

Return to Harrisburg l> 361

been the other two years. So flnally—that was the thing that con-
cerned me. And I . . . was very enamored of Stevenson, because I think
of him as one of the ablest men in the world and the ablest man I ever
met/'40 Kennedy left Lawrence without the desired commitment.

Lawrence deliberately maintained his poker face in his public
pronouncements. In a 19 59 appearance on ”Meet the Press,” he deftly
dodged the issue by suggesting that both Stevenson and Kennedy
would make excellent presidents. In response to a direct question on
the impact of Kennedy's religion, he responded with classic obfusca-
tion. ”Now I don't want to dismiss that with the idea that I don't
think it may enter [into the election], because at certain times it does,
depending on a lot of other major circumstances. If Kennedy went
into the fight with some major issue that the people were voting on-
like if you voted for Kennedy you were for it, say, like the right-to-
work law in the California and Ohio fights last year. [Both states
elected Catholic governors by large majorities.] Then they forgot about
that [the Catholic] question. At least, its submerged or subordinated
to the issue/'41

As the Democratic National Convention approached, Lawrence
did his best to keep the Pennsylvania delegation uncommitted. In ad-
dresses and comments to the press, he praised nearly all the named
candidates. His aide Walter Giesey, at the same time, was issuing
statements to the press declaring his boss ”neutral and determined
to remain neutral until the Democratic National Convention/'42 A
quick endorsement by Symington to a brief ”Lawrence for vice-
president” boom failed to win the desired return endorsement from
the governor.

Lawrence's neutrality, however, was not holding his own Penn-
sylvania delegation. Victories by Kennedy delegates in a number of
the state's primary districts and a surprising Kennedy write-in vote
of 180,000 prompted a number of public endorsements by prominent
officials. Senator Joseph Clark, Matthew McCloskey, and a number
of other Philadelphians armounced their support of him. Milton Shapp,
a Philadelphia cable television millionaire, tried to start a boom for
Kennedy by arranging ”to have the senator come to Philadelphia to
meet some of my friends” and mailing about four hundred intivations
to a fund—raising luncheon to area businessmen. Philadelphia boss
William Green, in an attempt to keep that part of the state in the
neutral camp, responded with an angry phone call. ”Shapp, what the
hell's this Kennedy luncheon all about?” he demanded. ”Bill, I just
want some of my friends to meet the senator and maybe get some
Presidential support for him.” There was about a ten-second pause,

362 <1 Don't call me boss

and then Shapp received a prime lesson. ”Shapp, I'll make a deal with
you,” Green shouted. ”I’ll stay out of the electronics business and you
keep your fucking nose out of politics. When I decide who I want,
I'll let you know. Now knock it off. . . . I don't want you or anyone
else doing a damned thing until I tell you. Get it?” Within thirty min-
utes Shapp received a call from Kennedy's advance man in Pennsyl-
vania telling him ”not to do anything in a formal way. Iust keep Ken-
nedy interest going.”43

In spite of the efforts of Green and Lawrence, however, other
party leaders in the state joined the Kennedy camp. Organization
Democrats in Cambria and Armstrong counties and Lawrence's ever
present opponents McClelland and Roberts in Pittsburgh made pub-
lic statements supporting the Massachusetts senator. On the eve of
the convention, Kennedy had half of the state's eighty-one-delegate
vote, according to a count by McClelland. Lawrence, as chairman of
the delegation, responded to the growing Kennedy support by ruling
against the unit rule for his group. If McClelland’s calculations proved
accurate, a vote for the unit rule would give Kennedy all of the state's
delegate votes and prevent Lawrence from playing a role in the
decision-making process. He refused to have his hands tied.

Lawrence arrived in Los Angeles a full day ahead of the Pennsyl-
vania delegation. Iohn Bailey, a Kennedy supporter, met with him at
his hotel, the Biltmore, also the headquarters of the Kennedy team.
Having pressed the advantages of his candidate, Bailey secured no com-
mitment, but Lawrence did agree to meet with Kennedy the follow-
ing day. At that meeting, which included McCloskey, Lawrence asked
a number of questions. He was particularly interested in Kennedy's
choice for national party chairman—Lawrence had carried on a run-
ning feud with the current chairman, Paul Butler— and his thoughts
on a running mate. Kennedy's vice-presidential list included most of
the prominent Democrats except Lyndon Baines Iohnson. It was at
this point that Lawrence first mentioned the Texas senator. ”None
of the men on the list are going to bring anything to the ticket. Why
wouldn't you go for Lyndon Johnson?” Lawrence asked. When Ken-
nedy responded, ”Dave, you know that there is no way Iohnson is
ever going to take that,” Lawrence told him of an earlier meeting in
Washington between himself, Iohnson, Sam Rayburn, and McClos-
key. Over Raybum’s objections, Iohnson had agreed that, if he did
not win the first position, he would ”do anything my party wants me
to do.” Kennedy expressed some disbelief, but Lawrence guaranteed
that if ”you’ll ask him . . . he will take it.” The meeting ended with-
out any commitments from either side, but Lawrence had planted

Return to Harrisburg l> 363

a seed and agreed to stay in touch with Kennedy headquarters. The
Lawrence-McCloskey meeting had a strong impact on Kennedy. The
following day, Ioseph Alsop and Philip Graham paid a similar visit
to Kennedy to discuss the merits of Johnson as a vice-presidential
candidate and were astonished at his quick acceptance of the idea.
”Ioe and I were a bit shaken by his positiveness. His brother Bobby
had told me earlier that Iohnson would not be considered/'44

Lawrence now made his last effort on behalf of the man he once
called ”the greatest statesman of our day.” He first visited the Illinois
delegation to learn the extent of support for Stevenson. Arvey and
a number of the delegates made it clear that, while they felt an obli-
gation to remain with their state's favorite son through the first bal-
lot, their preference was now Kennedy. Lawrence's resolve for his hero
was shaken. ”In Illinois, those fellows there weren't for him. Hell, he
hadn't his own state. . . . And so I saw the situation, then I figured
well I'm just hurting myself politically to stand out against Kennedy
when they want to be for him. . . . I had finally made up my mind. . . .
If I lost the state legislature, then I was going to be in a terrible di-
lemma in the final two years of my administration/'45

Late that Sunday night, Ierry Lawrence drove his father eight miles
to the Beverly Hills Hotel to meet face-to-face with the man he had
championed for nearly a decade. The two men discussed the situa-
tion for several hours. Lawrence gave Stevenson one last opportunity
to declare himself openly. If he refused, the governor would support
Kennedy on the first ballot and perhaps the second. Only in the event
of a deadlocked convention would he return to the candidate from
Illinois. Stevenson again declined to run and told Lawrence, ”Do what
you have to, Dave.” His aide Bill Wertz asked, ”Govemor, are you sure
that's the message you want to give Governor Lawrence?” ”Adlai could
have said anything but that and he would've stopped Pennsylvania
from going to Kennedy,” said another Stevenson aide. ”Dave Lawrence
was the ace in the hole and we let him go.” When Stevenson repeated
his statement, Lawrence told him he was joining the Kennedy camp
and suggested that Stevenson place the name of Iohn Kennedy in
nomination. Stevenson responded that he could not do that ”because
of the people who came to California on their hard-eamed money”;
he just could not let his delegates down.“ Whether Lawrence con-
tinued to hope for a Stevenson candidacy is unclear. But he would
not be among the drivers of a Stevenson bandwagon, as he had been
in 1952 and 1956.

Three candidates—Kennedy, Iohnson and Symington—and Ste-
venson’s stand-in, Mike Monroney, spoke to the Pennsylvania caucus

364 <1 Don't call me boss

the following morning. Monroney, Iohnson, and Symington were
greeted with polite applause. Kennedy received a standing ovation.
Lawrence announced to his own delegation, in a private session fol-
lowing the candidates’ presentations, that he would support Kennedy
on the first several ballots. That was all that was needed. Other un-
committed delegates waiting for some sign from their leader now
rushed to join the Kennedy effort. On the first Pennsylvania caucus
vote, Kennedy received sixty-four of the eighty-one votes, bringing
obvious joy to the Kennedy supporters.

The Steamroller for Kennedy was momentarily halted by the wild
Tuesday demonstration that followed Senator Eugene McCarthy's
nomination speech for Stevenson. The half-hour celebration threat-
ened to stampede the convention for the two—time candidate. Nor-
mally controlled groups rushed onto the convention floor to show
their support. In the Pennsylvania delegation, even the always sedate
Genevieve Blatt, a long-terrn protégé of Lawrence's, grabbed the Penn-
sylvania banner and joined in. The demonstration, however, proved
meaningless. Pennsylvania gave Kennedy 68'votes to put him over
the 6 50 mark, with 761 needed to nominate. When Wyoming voted
unanimously for Kennedy, any remaining suspense vanished. In spite
of Lawrence's persistent reservations about the candidate's religion-
he had again expressed his fears following the state's Monday cau-
cus—the forty-three-year-old Massachusetts senator became the
party's nominee with a narrow surplus of 45 votes.

Thursday I 5 Iuly was another crucial day in Los Angeles. Follow-
ing the first-ballot victory the previous evening, the Kennedy forces
met nearly all day in the nominee's suite at the Biltmore. An adjoin-
ing suite was set up for Lawrence, Carmine Di Sapio of New York,
and several other big-city bosses. In view of his significant role in the
nomination and his standing among the group, Lawrence was selected
as their spokesman. Convinced that Kennedy's greatest weakness
was in the South, they authorized Lawrence to push for the selection
of Iohnson as Kennedy's running mate.

All day, party leaders filed in and out of the Kennedy suite to
press their case for an acceptable candidate. Labor leaders made clear
that Lyndon Iohnson was not among their choices. Influential sena-
tors and representatives stopped by to make a pitch for a favored can-
didate. The Kennedy forces, including the candidate's brother Robert,
had their own choices. Lawrence met with Kennedy several times
during the day to urge the selection of Iohnson. Early in the morning,
to escape the crowd milling about in the ”command” suite, Kennedy,
McCloskey, and Lawrence met in the bathroom of suite 9333. Ken-

Return to Harrisburg [>

nedy searched for further assurances that Iohnson would be a willing
candidate. ”Now look Dave, I don't want to go down there and ask
that guy. Are you sure now?” Lawrence and McCloskey repeated the
substance of their Washington meeting with Iohnson and guaranteed
that he would accept. ”We . . . had to authorize Kennedy to say to
Iohnson, if there was any question about it, that the reason he came
was . . . because the two of us had assured him that this is what Iohn-
son had said/'47 Organized labor, they added, would support the ticket,
for the labor leaders had nowhere else to go.

Kennedy then visited the Iohnson suite two floors below his own
to sound him out without actually making an offer. When Iohnson
indicated that he would accept, his name immediately appeared on the
list of possible candidates. The debate in the Kennedy suite contin-
ued until late afternoon, with Lawrence paying several visits. Shortly
after 3 P.M. a solid offer was tendered to Iohnson and he accepted.

Lawrence's influence was acknowledged: he was asked by both
Kennedy and Johnson to place the name of the Texan in nomination.
In a short but power-packed speech, he made the reasons for his sup-
port clear. Lyndon Iohnson, the ideal candidate for vice-president,
would help in the South and in borderline states and would add tre-
mendous strength to the ticket.“ Although he remained skeptical
about the effects of Kennedy's religion until election day, the Demo-
crats had fulfilled Lawrence's fondest wish. They remained united
while putting together a winning ticket.

A happy Lawrence returned home to organize a concerted effort
for the Democratic candidates. He personally campaigned extensively
across the state, and the candidates of both parties made several vis-
its to Pennsylvania. The Kennedy motorcade through the state drew
crowds estimated at nearly one million. On election day, as Kennedy
eked out a bare majority over Richard Nixon nationwide, he won by
116,000 votes in Pennsylvania. In addition, Kennedy carried with him
enough candidates for the legislature to give the governor a narrow
but workable majority in the House and a twenty-five to twenty-five
tie in the Senate. Lawrence's concern over the influence of Kennedy's
religion in Pennsylvania proved surprisingly accurate with one im-
portant exception. He lost the ”least Catholic” counties by a greater
margin than Stevenson had in 1956 and managed small gains in the
”moderately Catholic” counties. In the Catholic centers, however, he
had a victory of more than 2 5 5,000 votes—a turnaround in excess of
6oo,ooo over the previous presidential election. His victories in Phila-
delphia and Allegheny Counties alone totaled nearly 4 5o,ooo votes.49

Lawrence returned from the Kennedy inauguration festivities,

365

366 <1 Don’t call me boss

where he enjoyed a place of honor on the presidential stand, as he
had in Ianuary 1934. Democrats were now in positions of power in
Pittsburgh, in Harrisburg, and in Washington. To make matters even
better, his party controlled Philadelphia, and Democratic registration
in Pennsylvania now exceeded that of the Republicans. Completion
of his legislative program and election of a Democrat to succeed him
in the state capital would make ”retirement” to the life of a senior
statesman and adviser to presidents and other public officials nearly
perfect.

He generally succeeded in the first goal, missing only on a tough
strip mining bill and portions of his educational reform bill. The sec-
ond goal appeared to be an even safer bet. His administration had
created a balanced budget, suffered no scandals, and passed an im-
pressive legislative package. He enjoyed recognition throughout the
state and had been hailed for nearly six months in 1960 as a king-
maker. The election of Kennedy seemed to guarantee his influence
in Washington. When the Democratic leaders met in early 1962 to
select the person they hoped would be his successor, Mayor Dilworth
of Philadelphia finally received the long-sought nomination. The Re-
publicans, however, countered with their best candidate of the cen-
tury, William Scranton. A Pennsylvanian of wealth and standing, from
the city bearing his name, the Yale-educated Scranton was a party's
dream come true. He was tall, handsome, self-assured, and knowl-
edgeable about state issues, and he appeared to the voters sincere about
his desire to serve.

Dilworth made matters worse by nmning what one reporter called
”one of the poorest campaigns in modern Pennsylvania history/'50 A
scandal in his Philadelphia administration and suburban discontent
over Governor Lawrence's school reorganization bill haunted him
throughout the campaign. He missed the opportunity to show off his
renowned hard-hitting style in a televised Kennedy-Nixon type de-
bate, giving the advantage to his lesser-known opponent. Scranton,
on the other hand, hit the Democrats where they were most vulner-
able, attacking the boss politics of Lawrence and Green and the in-
creased taxes under two Democratic governors.

In Lawrence's view, Pennsylvania voters had turned their backs
on him and his administration by handing Scranton a 486,000-vote
victory. The Republican candidate won sixty-two of the sixty-seven
counties. ”I don't think we got a damn vote for balancing the budget.
Not a vote,” a dejected Lawrence commented. ”All the work we put
into that to get this state on its feet. I never heard anybody saying,
’I’m going to vote for these guys because they balanced the budget’/'51

Return to Harrisburg [> 367

Lawrence's hopes to leave a Democratic administration in Harris-
burg to complete the programs he and Leader had started were dashed,
and many speculated that he would return to Pittsburgh in semi-
retirement when his term was completed. They failed to take into
account his never ending desire to be in the middle of the decision-
making action.

Pittsburgh

Pittsburgh on a rare clear day around
194 5. The two bridges in the foreground
and the warehouse railroad complex at
the Point were removed between 1951
and I9 57. Carnegie Library, Pittsburgh

Pittsburgh after completion of the Re-
naissance. Associated Photographersl
Dick Brehl

Detail of the Point in I910, Lawrence's
neighborhood. Carnegie Library, Pitts-
burgh

 
 
     

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Pittsburgh Series in Social and Labor History

Maurine Weiner Greenwald, Editor

The Correspondence of Mother [ones
Edward M. Steel, Editor

Don't Call Me Boss: David L. Lawrence, Pittsburgh’s Renaissance Mayor
Michael P. Weber

Women and the Trades
Elizabeth Beardsley Butler

Other titles in the series

The Emergence of a UAW Local, 1936-1939: A Study in Class and Culture
Peter Friedlander

Homestead: The Households of a Mill Town
Margaret F. Byington

The Homestead Strike of1892
Arthur G. Burgoyne

Immigration and Industrialization: Ethnicity in an American Mill Town,
1870-1940 I
Iohn Bodnar

Out of This Furnace
Thomas Bell

Steelmasters and Labor Reform, 1886-1923
Gerald G. Eggert

Steve Nelson, American Radical
Steve Nelson, Iames R. Barrett, & Rob Ruck

Working-Class Life: The “American Standard” in Comparative Perspective,

1899-1913
Peter R. Shergold

16 <1 Don’t call me boss

George W. Guthrie broke the Republican lock on city hall, defeating
his Republican candidate by almost 3,000 votes. Guthrie, whose father
and grandfather had held the same office before the years of the Magee-
Flinn domination of the city, ran on a reform ticket supported by
several independent groups as well as by the Democratic party. Reform
strength, however, proved insufficient to gain control of any seats on
the city council or of any of the bureaucratic row offices (elected ad-
ministrative offices such as city treasurer, controller, etc.) held by
the Republican organization. Not surprisingly, Guthrie's administra-
tion was generally ineffective, for the entrenched machine blocked
most of his efforts at reform. Republican William Magee, nephew of
the former boss, Christopher Magee, replaced Guthrie in 1909, and
all hopes of reform through the existing political apparatus were dead.
It is not clear how these event influenced the thinking of David
Lawrence, but local newspaper editorials at the time made clear the
futility of Guthrie's single-handed attempts at reform. Lawrence,
always an avid newspaper reader, could hardly fail to understand the
message. In any event, it was a mistake he always avoided. He never
undertook political or legislative action without a prior assessment
of support, and he often deferred action if he perceived support to be
weak or absent. Lawrence seldom ventured out on a limb.

The influence of the success of the I9II Pittsburgh municipal re-
form movement on Lawrence, however, is much more difficult to
discern, and the analysis that follows is admittedly more speculative.
Nevertheless, his reliance on the upper class to carry out the rede-
velopment of the city in the 1940s and 1950s may have its roots in
his observation of the success of that same class in decentralizing
the city's political and educational systems. Led by Leo Weil of the
Voters’ League, nearly 750 members of the city’s business, industrial,
and professional elites pushed a bill through the state legislature re-
quiring the at-large election of the city council and judicial appoint-
ment of the city school board. The bill, ostensibly designed to re-
duce the power of the political ward system, was supported by, among
others, ”the presidents of fourteen large banks and ofiicials of Westing-
house, Pittsburgh Plate Glass, U.S. Steel and its component parts, . . .
Iones and Laughlin . . . the H. I. Heinz Company and the Pittsburgh
Coal Company, as well as officials of the Pennsylvania Railroad and
the Pittsburgh and Lake Erie.”31 Lawrence, no doubt, failed to appre-
ciate the significance of their role in this political reform, for its ex-
tent has only recently been documented. Several of the presidents,
however, were mentioned prominently in the newspapers, and inter-
ested readers such as Lawrence could not fail to know that they were

 

Strike

In 1946, during Lawrence's first year as mayor, the Duquesne Light
workers struck the company. The city was without electricity for
twenty-seven days. Lawrence and his aides worked around the clock
to bring both sides to a negotiated settlement. In the minds of many,
particularly the city's corporate heads, Lawrence's image as a parti-
san spokesman for organized labor was put to rest as a result of his
efforts. Their changed perception of Lawrence played a major role in
the success of the private-public partnership which spearheaded the
redevelopment of the city.

(Above left) Lawrence speaks to the citizens of Pittsburgh on the status of the strike
negotiations, September 9, 1946. Carnegie Library, Pittsburgh

(Above right) Lawrence catches a quick nap following the announcement of settle-
ment of the power strike. The photo, by Morris Bennan of the Sun Telegraph, was
carried nationally by the wire services and featured on the cover of Newsweek. Car-
negie Library, Pittsburgh

(Below) Too busy to dine out, the mayor had dinner served in his office as negotia-
tions continued to avert a power strike. Left to right: Lawrence, Iack Robin, City So-
licitor Anne X. Alpem, Federal Conciliator Charles Katz, and William Chestnut, State
Secretary of Labor, February 26, 1946. Carnegie Library, Pittsburgh

A Lifetime in Government

During Lawrence's fifty-year career, he moved easily from the local
to the national arena. He had many companions along the way, both
political and nonpolitical, as he signed bills, pounded gavels, and even
shoveled dirt.

(Below right) As Convention Chainnan, Lawrence brings down the gavel to open the
1948 Democratic National Convention in Philadelphia, Iuly I3, 1948. Carnegie Library,
Pittsburgh

(Below left) Secretary of the Commonwealth and
democratic state chairman, Lawrence attends the
1936 Democratic convention, Iune 21, 1936. Car-
negie Library, Pittsburgh

  
   

The mayor signs the city's Fair Employment Practices Commission into law, Decem-
ber 5, 1952. Five leading supporters of the bill look on. Left to right, first row: Law-
rence, Mrs. Daisy E. Lampkin, Mrs. Louis I. Reizenstein. Rear: Rev. N. H. Moor, Fred-
erick McKee, and Boyd Wilson. Carnegie Library, Pittsburgh

(Above) Genevieve Blatt and Governor George Leader ]Oi1'l state national committee-
persons, Emma Guffey Miller and Lawrence, at the 1956 Democratic National Con-
vention in support of Adlai Stevenson, August 16, 1956. Carnegie Library, Pittsburgh
(Below) Lawrence, a strong supporter of the Iewish state of Israel, lends his assistance
in the Bonds for Israel drive. Left to right: Adolph Schoenbrun, Lawrence, Mrs. Sam
Helman, Sam Felman. Carnegie Library, Pittsburgh

Lawrence and several ofhis closest aides receive election returns in customer's fash-

ion at Democratic headquarters in the Benedum-Trees building. Democratic guber-
natorial primary May 20, I9 58. Left to right: City Councilman Fred C. Weir, Judge Wil-
liam S. Rahauser, County Controller Iames W. Knox, County Democratic Chairman
B. B. McGinnis, and Mrs. Lawrence. Carnegie Library, Pittsburgh

(Below left) Lawrence and Senator Ioseph Guffey during one of their friendly periods.
(Below right) Mrs. Lawrence and longtime Democratic supporter Matthew H. McClos-
key, at the Democratic National Convention in Philadelphia, Iuly I5, 1948. Carnegie
Library, Pittsburgh

 

Groundbreaking for con-
struction of the Mellon
Square Park and under-
ground garage. The land
was a gift of the Mellon
family to the city. Looking
on are Richard King Mel-
lon (left) and George Main,
parking authority chair-
man, September 29, 1953.
Carnegie Library, Pitts-
burgh

County Commissioner
John Kane, Judge Michael
Musmarmo, and Lawrence
on the occasion of Mus-
manno’s victory, Iuly I3,
1950. Carnegie Library,
Pittsburgh

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

    

   

(Above) Peter Flaherty, center, with Mayor Iosephl Barr and Governor Lawrence, in the
days before Flaherty was "Nobody’s boy.” Carnegie Library, Pittsburgh

(Below) Lawrence with Millard Tawes, governor of Maryland (left) and Lyndon B. ]ohn—
son (center). Carnegie Library, Pittsburgh

368

1963-1966
In Service to the Nation

Speculation regarding the next phase of David Lawrence's career
naturally occurred anywhere Democrats gathered. Many felt he would
return to the city of his birth, adopt a semiretired position, and watch
over the finishing touches of the Pittsburgh Renaissance. He was still
chairman of the URA and had maintained close relations with Mayor
Ioseph Barr during his absence.‘ Retirement would give him an op-
portunity to watch the seeds he had sown bear fruit. He could con-
tinue to have a dominant hand in local politics, where he was regarded
as without peer in either prestige or power. Close supervision might
shape the party so that it retained his imprint long after he retired
from the scene. Those who predicted a Pittsburgh residency pointed
out that Mrs. Lawrence longed to return to be near her children, grand-
children, and other relatives. She had developed osteoporosis and
was frequently bedridden. Returning to Pittsburgh would give her
great comfort.

There were, of course, those who speculated that Lawrence would
never retire, not even part-time. It was ”not in his blood.” One rumor
suggested that he might return to Pittsburgh to take a high-level posi-
tion in the management of the Mellon Foundation. Another offered
the unlikely suggestion that incoming Governor Scranton might ask
Lawrence to remain in Harrisburg as an adviser on urban affairs. In
November several newspapers speculated that he might be in line
for a high-level position in the Kennedy administration. Among those
presidential posts most frequently mentioned were postmaster gen-
eral and ambassador to Israel, neither of which was open at the mo-

' ment.2 He denied that any post had been offered to him and indicated

that he had no interest in moving to Washington.
Three weeks before the conclusion of his term as governor, how-

In Service to the Nation l> 369

ever, Lawrence received a letter from the president asking him to come
to Washington to discuss the chairmanship of a newly created Presi-
dent's Committee on Equal Opportunity in Housing. ”We have given
a great deal of attention to the qualifications the Chairman should
have, and on the basis of every test you turn out to be the obvious
choice. I believe the Chairman should be a man of proven adminis-
trative ability, one who possesses a national stature, an individual
whose reputation for fairness will make him as acceptable in the South
as in every section of the country and, if at all possible, one who has
had personal experience in administering state statutes or city ordi-
nances of a similar character. Additionally the Chairman should com-
mand respect not only from negro and other minority groups, but also
from politicians and industrial leaders/'3

Lawrence was, in fact, the obvious choice. Throughout his pub-
lic career he had championed the cause of equal opportunity for de-
cent housing for all. He had demonstrated a concern for housing as-
sistance as early as 1949 when, as president of the U.S. Conference
of Mayors, he led the fight for the Federal Housing Act. Several years
later he led a delegation of mayors to petition House Speaker Sam
Rayburn to use his influence to move a stalled omnibus housing bill,
which, among other things, provided funds for public housing, out
of committee. As mayor of Pittsburgh he instituted one of the na-
ti0n’s first fair housing ordinances, arguing that such legislation was
more properly the responsibility of the state and federal government.
As governor he pushed for a statewide act, which he signed into law
in 1961. Not content with state action, he lobbied the federal govem-
ment, in 19 59, lecturing a U.S. Senate subcommittee on the necessity
for the federal government to supply housing for low-income fami-
lies.4 In addition, Lawrence was an excellent candidate for the posi-
tion because he was known among Southern politicians as a moderate
on civil rights. He could be expected to move cautiously.

The position intrigued Lawrence because, as Kennedy explained,
”the chairman will have great latitude in establishing his own method
of operation.” He would be named a special assistant to the president,
a position that made him responsible only to the president. The size
of the committee, the mode of operation, and the procedures for pro-
cessing complaints were all to be determined by the chairman and
the committee. The executive order that created the committee pro-
hibited ”discrimination because of race, color, creed, or national ori-
gin in housing and related facilities owned or operated by the Federal
Govemment.” The prohibition affected 22 5,000 public and commu-
nity housing units already built by the federal government and all

37O <1 Don’t call me boss

private homes to be constructed using Veterans Administration or
Federal Housing Authority loans. The order further called for activi-
ties ”to promote the abandonment of discriminatory practices in hous-
ing and related facilities provided with federal assistance/'5 Those
who drafted the order apparently had a form of public education in
mind but did not provide any specific guidelines.

Lawrence and Walter Giesey met with the president on 10 Janu-
ary. Following a twenty-minute conference, Lawrence agreed to ac-
cept the position provided he could bring Giesey along as his aide.
It was a detail he had not mentioned to his longtime executive
secretary—he assumed Giesey would comply with his wishes, and
he did. Ten days after leaving the govemor’s post, Lawrence, his wife,
his son Jerry, and Walter Giesey went to Washington for swearing-in
ceremonies. The Pennsylvania politician launched a new phase of his
career at age seventy-three. He later explained that his quick com-
pliance was due to two reasons. The first was ”a firm belief that when
the President of the United States asks you to do something, you have
no right to refuse. The second reason was my conviction that attain-
ing equal opportunities for all our citizens is one of the most chal-
lenging and imperative domestic responsibilities we face as a nation.”
Walter Giesey also suggested that the position offered him an oppor-
tunity to ”depressurize” from the rigors of government without the
abrupt departure he faced at the conclusion of his term of office as
govemor.6

The first task facing the chairman of the new committee was to
select the eight public members. Using his broad contacts among state
and municipal leaders, he drew up a list of nominees, including rep-
resentatives from organized labor, financial institutions, and the
building industry, and an attomey.7 Four cabinet officers and the heads
of the Veterans Administration, the Housing and Home Finance
Agency, and the Federal Home Loan Bank board were also members.
They set up office in a handsome suite in the Executive Office Build-
ing and agreed to meet on a regular basis to hear complaints of non-
compliance and to plan strategy for the public education campaign
designed to bring about voluntary compliance. For Lawrence and (lie-
sey, who threw themselves wholeheartedly into the program, the ex-
perience was from the very beginning one of both exhilaration and
frustration.

Even before all the public members were approved, Lawrence
launched the education phase. On 24 March he began a series of ad-
dresses and conferences that would eventually take him into more
than thirty states to meet and speak with several hundred groups in-

In Service to the Nation [> 371

terested in housing and equal rights. He attended every one of the
conferences. During the first several months he was virtually a one-
man show. Speaking to a five-state housing conference in Springfield,
Missouri, he launched his crusade not only for compliance with the
executive order but also for the broader goal of eliminating discrimi-
nation in the entire housing field. He emphasized its importance by
pointing out that ”racial discrimination in housing is a basic cause
of other types of discrimination that have received much more pub-
licity. Breaking through the barriers in housing will release, at the
most dangerous point, the mounting racial pressures in our cities re-
sulting from artificial restrictions on local housing markets.” In the
next several months he delivered messages in Chicago, Cleveland,
Brooklyn, Washington, D.C., and Pittsburgh. In each case the mes-
sage was similar, but he presented it in language adapted to his audi-
ence. In Washington, he presented a ”rational” message to an American
University forum: open housing communities can work successfully
and does not result in devaluation, a fact that he demonstrated with
examples from Pittsburgh and the state of Pennsylvania that support-
ing integration need not be political suicide. Speaking before a Catho-
lic group in Cleveland, he took a strongly moral approach, beginning
by quoting liberally from a pastoral letter from the archbishop of
Baltimore and concluding with the reminder that the challenge of
instilling a new morality in America was not as formidable as that
facing the Apostles, the early Christian missionaries, or St. Patrick
in Ireland.3

The analogy seemed appropriate as Lawrence traveled through-
out the country to drive out the demons of prejudice and racism that
prevented people from living in a home of their choice. He adopted
the cause thrust upon him by the president as a personal crusade.
Using what he perceived to be the success of the initial conferences
as a basis, he and Walter Giesey devised a strategy to reach key hous-
ing personnel. Beginning in May 1964, the committee launched an
ambitious program aimed at educating the public, sponsoring a series
of conferences on equal opportunity in housing designed to take its
chairman and staff into dozens of metropolitan areas throughout the
nation.9 At the initial meeting in Boston, Lawrence spoke to repre-
sentatives of more than seventy public and private groups involved
in the housing industry, including community fair housing commit-
tees, banking interests, real estate brokers, labor unions, the Cham-
ber of Commerce, and numerous clergy. He spared no feelings when
he told them that their city had been selected because there was still
a great deal of discrimination there.

Growing Up l>

involved. Their success, particularly following so closely on the heels
of the disappointment of the Guthrie administration and in the face
of strong opposition from the entrenched regime, must have impressed
him. Thus, when viewed in the light of his early experiences, Law-
rence’s willingness to embrace Pittsburgh's Republican, Protestant
elite to bring about the redevelopment of the city seems much less
surprising. It is certainly more than coincidence that the same cor-
porate offices that effected the 1911 reform were also prominent in
the post-World War II redevelopment of the city. What changed was
that in the latter period they worked closely with the administration
in power.

Finally, the Progressive era, during which Lawrence grew up,
clearly shaped his later urban liberalism. American historians disagree
over which social class provided the impetus for the reforms of the
Progressive era, but they generally agree that it established precedents
for the later reforms of the New Deal and New Frontier. Lawrence,
who straddled two social classes, exhibited some of the traits gener-
ally attributed to each, but his blue-collar background proved to be
the driving force.

During his early years he was attracted to the Social Gospelers
and social scientists who appealed to so many middle-class reform-
ers. At one point he joined the Henry George Club but soon became
disillusioned with the single tax as a solution to urban problems. He
retained, however, the view that, given economic incentives to do
so, private enterprise would develop rather than exploit the resources
of the city. He also developed a reliance on experts to examine and
provide solutions to the problems plaguing the city. The urban re-
development known as the Pittsburgh Renaissance owes much of its
success to professionals, employed by both public and private agen-
cies, upon whom Lawrence relied.

But he really did not require experts to help him identify the ills
of society. Lawrence, to be sure, never experienced the poverty of
many of Pittsburgh's working-class families, but he certainly viewed
its effects from close range. He knew firsthand the problems of urban
life: inadequate housing and health services, unemployment, and a
generally unhealthy environment.” As a result, he seldom viewed
issues on a grand or comprehensive scale but attacked them singly,
as they appeared. He offered the comment, ”We are practical people,
not ideologists,” again and again not as an apology but as a sign of
strength— a pragmatic politics for a practical people. He viewed gov-
ernment as the vehicle through which one could examine the prob-
lem and find a way to solve it. One did not restructure society; one

17

372 <1 Don’t call me boss

Each conference was to be an exercise in self-examination and
was expected to lead to a set of policy recommendations for the host
city. Although Lawrence seldom participated in the small group work
sessions of the conferences, it was a format with which he was most
comfortable. Examine a problem, develop solutions, and then work
out the details of a workable plan. Reasonable persons, when faced
with a set of problems, could be expected to reach an acceptable ac-
commodation. Although it is difficult to point to direct, tangible re-
sults of the conferences, he was convinced that they were effective
vehicles to shape public policy and he attended every one over the
next two years.

While Lawrence generally relied on ”education” and ”persuasion”
to enlighten others, he demonstrated that he could still use force when
necessary. He angrily berated the National Association of Real Es-
tate Boards after it said in a policy statement that realtors had no re-
sponsibility to help blacks find better homes. ”Property rights and
human rights are not contradictory. Each should be respected. Since
the human rights of many Americans have not been fully realized,
it is the responsibility of us all, including those of the real estate
business to work energetically and positively to correct those condi-
tions.” The association, which had never been particularly cautious
about housing matters, could not now ”assume a position of impo-
tence or neutrality in improving housing opportunities in this nation.
Nor can it defend hostility to such equality as indicated in the re-
affirmation of past policies which have tended to encourage and sus-
tain such unhealthy conditions/'10

An exchange of accusations and denials between Lawrence and
the association produced no positive results toward the goal of the
housing committee but drew attention to the glaring weakness in
the president's executive order. It applied only to housing purchased
with Veterans Administration and Federal Housing Authority mort-
gages, approximately 20 percent of all housing transactions. The com-
mittee was expected to use moral suasion to bring about equal op-
portunity in the purchase of homes financed through conventional
mortgages—about 70 percent of all housing transactions.

It was a weakness immediately identified by Ferdinand Kramer,
one of Lawrence's first recruits to the committee ”The order is not
broad enough in that it leaves out certain agencies who have the same
benefits of government guarantees on deposits as some of the agen-
cies under the order. This leaves a loop hole so that those who do
not care to abide by the President's Executive Order can finance their

In Service to the Nation l> 373

construction activities through [other] agencies. . . . I believe this is
a serious deficiency and that the committee should consider the pos-
sibility of remedying this.” Lawrence shared Kramer's misgivings,
and broadening the executive order to include other housing and
lending agencies became a goal of the committee almost upon its
inception.“

Its first effort proved deceptively successful. On 26 April 1963,
Lawrence announced that his group, only partially formed, had re-
quested that the president ban the creation of new government fa-
cilities in areas where discrimination in housing existed. Kennedy,
while not agreeing to a formal extension of the order, indicated that
he would attempt to follow the suggested policy and authorized Law-
rence to release the contents of his petition. That same day, how-
ever, three government members of the committee, Robert Weaver,
head of the Federal Housing Authority, Deputy Attorney General
Nicholas Katzenbach, and Joseph Murray, chairman of the Federal
Home Loan Bank, cautioned that the government must move slowly
and carefully in accordance with the existing order before trying to
expand it. 12 The two statements signaled the beginning of a four-year
conflict.

The public committee members, with Lawrence in agreement,
petitioned the president in September 1963 to broaden the order to
include conventional financing. This extension, when combined with
the agencies already affected, would cover an estimated 90 percent
of all new housing. The president's advisers indicated that, while
there was no legal question involved with regard to savings and loan
associations, there was some doubt about his authority to include
commercial banks, and Kennedy responded that he did not believe
it appropriate at that time to extend the order. Four months later the
committee, hoping to renew its plea, met with President Kennedy's
successor for the first time. Iohnson, however, was forewarned of their
interest, and Lee White, a White House aide, suggested that expan-
sion might have an adverse effect on the proposed civil rights bill cur-
rently under discussion in the Congress.”

Lawrence agreed on the wisdom of the president's decision, and
the issue was placed on the back burner. 14 Between January 1964 and
election day, the committee made no further requests. It would be
in a much better position to press the issue, Lawrence told them, when
Iohnson occupied the White House following his own election. In ad-
dition, pressure by the committee, particularly if it should become
public, might jeopardize either the president's civil rights program

374 <l Don’t call me boss

or his chances for reelection. The committee agreed to lie low, al-
though Kramer, who led the proexpansion group, offered occasional
reminders to Lawrence that the issue was not forgotten.15

Following Iohnson’s overwhelming victory in November 1964,
Lawrence was ready to resume the fight, but the president heeded
the advice of his aides, who urged him to avoid extension. He relied
instead upon the time-tested method of forming a committee, headed
by Vice-President Humphrey, to look into the matter.“

By mid March 196 5, Lawrence and his committee had grown im-
patient and prepared a formal petition for extension of the order to
commercial banks, mutual savings banks, and savings and loan asso-
ciations.” The petition was hand delivered to the president on 16
March. Lawrence followed the recommendation with his personal let-
ter urging the president to respond favorably.

During the next several months a series of discussions took place
among Lawrence, Humphrey, various cabinet officers, and members
of the presidential staff. It immediately became clear that Weaver and
the government oflficials were on the opposite side of the fence from
Lawrence and the public members of the committee. Lawrence
pressed for extension of the order but Katzenbach, Treasury Secre-
tary Fowler, and other White House staff members continued to urge
a more cautious approach. Vice-President Humphrey, Walter Giesey
noted, played the role of mediator ”although he was sympathetic to
our side/'13 It appeared that an impasse had been reached.

Lawrence tried to bring pressure on the reluctant government
officials by including cautious but pointed remarks regarding the
”limitations of the 1962 Executive Order” in his addresses to various
housing conferences across the nation. Whether it was the effect of
his comments, the overall educational efiorts of the committee, or
the increased concern over civil rights permeating the nation in the
mid 1960s remains unclear, but various allies began to appear. The
president received a score of letters urging extension of the order from
human rights committees, Urban Leagues, and the American Civil
Liberties Union. The National Committee Against Discrimination
in Housing, representing thirty-seven civil rights agencies, strongly
protested the recommendation of the Department of Iustice that the
president reject expansion. The Greater Baltimore Real Estate Board,
disregarding the advice of its national association, issued a statement
urging an immediate and far-reaching extension. Several months later
the National Association of Real Estate Boards, responding to a call
from Lawrence to cease ignoring its responsibilities, adopted a reso-
lution favoring the requested expansion. Ferdinand Kramer of Chi-

In Service to the Nation [> 375

cago and Louis Weinstein of Massachusetts raised additional concern
in government circles by threatening to resign from the committee
unless the issue was soon resolved.19

A memo by White House aide Ioseph Califano to the president
indicated that the efforts of the various groups were beginning to pay
off. ”There is tremendous pressure from civil rights leaders and the
President's Committee on Equal Opportunity in Housing to do some-
thing about all other housing, preferably by extending the current Ex-
ecutive Order. To avoid an explosion some action must be taken soon.”
The memo then explored the alternatives, including a new proposal —
legislation by Congress.

The advantages of the Executive Order route are that the civil
rights leaders and your Housing Committee would applaud
you, and you avoid the difficulties of a tough legislative battle.
The disadvantages are the opposition you would get from bank-
ers (for using them as the instrument), the chance that you
would lose in court and be accused of overextending your au-
thority and the fact that you would be moving in the most
sensitive of the civil rights areas all alone, without Congres-
sional help.

Legislation would be far less vulnerable to defeat in the
courts and might not arouse too much opposition from seg-
ments who oppose excessive use of Federal (executive) power. It
has the great advantage of having the Congress behind you. . . .

There are serious difficulties with legislation. The most sig-
nificant is in getting it passed. . . . Merely moving on this area
will present a significant problem for many Congressmen-
particularly the new Democrats elected in marginal districts.
Nevertheless, . . . it will be essential to promise a legislative
program in this area in 1966. . . .

If we do nothing, both the [White House] Conference [On
Civil Rights] and the [Housing] Commission will not only rec-
ommend extension of the Executive Order, they will probably
attack you for delay. It is possible that two or more members of
the Housing Committee might resign (the only thing that has
avoided some resignations during the past few months has
been the supreme skill of Governor Lawrence). Further, it is
only a matter of time before some Republicans (like Iavits and
Kuchel) recognize the importance of this to the Negro voter
and begin to ride you on it.

This is a close question. Governor Lawrence favors the Ex-

376 <1 Don’t call me boss

ecutive Order route. Ioe Fowler, Nick Katzenbach, Lee White
and I favor the legislative approach.

Califano concluded by suggesting that, if the president approved, the
White House Conference on Civil Rights, chaired by Humphrey,
should be induced to recommend legislative action, and the mem-
bers of Governor Lawrence's housing committee should be assured
that a ’’legislative program in this area will be forthcoming next year
[1966].”2°

Iohnson accepted the recommendation. It was only a matter of
time, Lawrence and his committee were told, until a federal open
housing bill became law. Given such assurances, particularly by Vice-
President Humphrey, in whom members had strong confidence, the
committee abandoned its long battle to force an extension of the Ken-
nedy executive order. However, what neither Lawrence nor the com-
mittee knew was that Iohnson’s memo to Califano giving the go-
ahead for the legislation included a handwritten note, which read,
”Favor Ian. I967 leg. — So Cong. won't get beat.” Iohnson got his wish.
A lengthy congressional battle over the bill, including a successful
Senate filibuster in 1966, delayed passage for nearly two and one-half
years. Kramer carried out his threat and resigned in Ianuary of 1967
because he felt there was nothing further to be gained by his mem-
bership. He made one last plea for an extension of the executive order
and suggested that, failing that, the committee be disbanded.“ Law-
rence, who believed that it was the committee's responsibility to
continue the battle, hid his own frustration by offering encouraging
words to housing conferences across the country.

In private, he confided to an old Pennsylvania associate that the
job ”is about to drive me up a wall. In all my life I have been in jobs
where I called the orders. I gave the orders and people had to get crack-
ing, when I told them to do something they did it. Now I have got
to sit here and wait . . . for any length of time for things to get going,
for people to get ready to do something. When I was governor or
mayor, . . . things had better get going as soon as they were under-
way." Washington, D.C., was becoming a tiresome place. The urban
housing conferences filled only part of his time, and while he occa-
sionally advised the president on urban affairs and political matters,
time hung heavy on his hands. The issue of extending the prohibi-
tion against discrimination in housing to commercial banks and sav-
ings and loans was now in the hands of the Congress and would be-
come part of the Civil Rights Act of 1968. Though he never said so,
Lawrence, according to Walter Giesey, probably intended to resign

In Service to the Nation l> 377

his position following the passage of a fair housing bill. His grand-
son David Donahoe sensed that he was ready to leave Washington
and return home.”

V

Lawrence, of course, had never relinquished his contact with af-
fairs in Pittsburgh or with Pennsylvania politics, but he found it in-
creasingly difficult to maintain control. He retained his position as
chairman of the URA and returned home to attend each executive
meeting. As an admittedly unreformed sports addict, he was deeply
interested in plans to build a new stadium and athletic complex.
Weekends were spent in Pittsburgh meeting with Mayor Barr, presid-
ing over political meetings at party headquarters, or playing pinochle
with Frank Ambrose and a few other old cronies. ”Invariably on a Fri-
day it got so I would expect a call,” Al Tronzo reported. ”Sometimes
it would be, ’Are you going down to the Y this evening?’ Or . . . ‘Meet
me in front [of party headquarters]’ which was a pleasant command.
We would be going to the Y, just that pleasant walk.”23

Weekend visits and periodic telephone calls and occasional re-
ports from associates back home, however, were not enough to en-
able him to maintain control of either the city or the state. Events
were beginning to slip from his grasp. The city council was showing
its independence from the mayor, and a young politician who received
his first job through Lawrence's intercession, Peter Flaherty, was start-
ing to question the efficacy of machine politics and would eventu-
ally defeat the organization by running on an antimachine platform.
The victory of a Republican district attorney, Robert W. Duggan, in
Allegheny County was viewed by some as indicative of a growing
weakness in the Democratic organization due to Lawrence's absence.

I just felt real sorry for him. He just seemed to be out of the
mainstream and in a place where he really didn't want to be
and yet he wanted to do this assignment and do it as well as he
could. And furthermore, he was down there and the Pennsyl-
vania papers were late arriving, and he didn't have unlimited
access to a phone. . . . I don't think he had quite the clout in
Pennsylvania in '63 and '64 as he had previously. He still had a
lot because there were still people who felt a great deal for him
and still looked to him for counsel. But on the other hand they
had to do the day to day work without benefit of him around
and they began to feel that maybe they were the leaders instead
of him. . . . There were a lot of contenders and he was trying to

378 <1 Don’t call me boss

keep them all happy, and he couldn't do it from that position
the way he could do it up here.-"-4

The first cracks appeared in the statewide organization in Ianu-
ary 1964 when the Philadelphia Democratic organization announced,
without Lawrence's agreement, that it intended to support State Su-
preme Court Iudge Michael Musmanno for the U.S. Senate nomina-
tion. Musmanno, whom Lawrence had rebuffed in several elections,
was selected by the Philadelphia committee for his ability to attract
the large Italian vote, which was considered crucial if the city was
to be won away from the Republican incumbent, Hugh Scott, a na-
tive son. Musmarmo’s former anti—Communist activities and his
theatrical style on the State Supreme Court added to his attractive-
ness as a candidate and, ever ambitious, he appeared to be the only
person anxious to take on the popular Scott. He seemed to aspire to
any office that offered upward mobility. The only other logical can-
didate was Lawrence's former protégé Genevieve Blatt, now secre-
tary for internal affairs. She had led the party ticket in the previous
election, had an admirable record in every office she had held and,
of course, was a longtime favorite of Lawrence's. But she had had a
difficult campaign in 1962 and was reluctant to run against Scott. She
speculated that Lawrence might oppose her candidacy because Scott
was too strong and because the electorate was not ready for a woman
candidate for senator. The Philadelphia organization rejected Blatt
because it considered her too independent and because she had the
support of Senator Ioe Clark, a strong opponent of the eastern city's
machine. Her admission that she neither informed Lawrence nor
asked for his support when she decided to run is indicative of a changed
Pennsylvania political world. She had always sought his opinion, if
not approval, in the past. She vehemently opposed Musmanno in dis-
cussions with Lawrence, arguing that he had refused once to resign
from the bench while running for a nonjudicial office and he would
do it again, a practice she found unethical. Lawrence showed little
reaction and gave no indication that he was going to back Musmarmo
the following day. Blatt suspected that he had already given his word
to the Philadelphia delegation but was unable to tell her.25

Unlike previous nominating meetings, which often gave evidence
that the important decisions had already been made, the 1964 cau-
cus appeared disorganized and leaderless. Seven names received con-
sideration for the U.S. Senate nomination, but none was close to a
majority on the first ballot.26 Lawrence, Ioe Barr, and most of the
western Pennsylvania delegation initially supported Blatt, while the

In Service to the Nation l> 379

Philadelphia delegation gave its votes to Musmarmo. The meeting
at this point grew stormy, supporters of each of the candidates hurl-
ing charges at others in the room. Most vocal was Lawrence's old
foe William McClelland. In what was merely another round in the
never ending anti-Lawrence battle, McClelland armounced his sup-
port of David Roberts. Later, when calm was restored, Lawrence, Barr,
and a number of others from western Pennsylvania joined Frank
Smith in support of Musmanno. He was selected by a vote of thirty-
seven to sixteen over Genevieve Blatt. Milton Shapp, the Philadel-
phia industrialist, received three votes.”

Though Blatt felt the entire endorsement process had been stage-
directed, the meeting demonstrated that Lawrence no longer domi-
nated the political scene in Pennsylvania. Whether he agreed to sup-
port Musmarmo before the meeting, as Blatt charged, or after the first
ballot revealed his strength, the power of the Philadelphia delegation
headed by Smith was apparent. Musmanno in the past had demon-
strated his rebellious nature often enough to lose Lawrence's support
permanently. Furthermore, it was his anti-Communist raids in Pitts-
burgh that had given Charles Margiotti an opportunity to strike a sec-
ond blow at Lawrence while he was mayor. Musmanno had openly
courted the Philadelphia delegation for nearly a year. His attempt to
outmaneuver Lawrence for the endorsement was blatant and played
into the hands of Frank Smith. It was the type of action Lawrence
would earlier have beaten back with great relish. This time, however,
he was powerless. In the interest of party harmony, he joined with
the majority, becoming one of the players rather than the dominant
figure in the contest.

As a good party regular, he supported the party's choice in the
primary even though the woman he admired more than any other
remained in the race, as she had promised. Someone had to stop the
unethical Musmarmo, she reasoned. Lawrence campaigned only half-
heartedly that spring, explaining that his work in Washington kept
him from more active participation. The primary campaign degener-
ated into a name-calling battle between Musmanno and Blatt’s prin-
cipal supporter, Ioe Clark, but Blatt, as expected, kept to the high road,
campaigning on her record and her considerable knowledge of national
and international affairs.

On a cold, wet primary election day, the Philadelphia delegation,
which had forced Musmanno on the party, lacked the power to pro-
duce the big vote needed to give him the nomination. Registered
Democrats throughout the state gave another indication of the ab-
sence of their strong leader when fewer than one-half turned out to

380 <1 Don’t call me boss

vote. Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, the organization strongholds, to-
gether gave Musmarmo fewer than one hundred thousand votes over
Blatt. She won nearly every county, defeating him by just over thirty-
two hundred votes statewide. Musmanno, however, refused to con-
cede. He contested the election through the Philadelphia County Elec-
tions Board, the Court of Common Pleas, the State Supreme Court—of
which he was still a sitting judge — and the U.S. Supreme Court. Ironi-
cally on Columbus Day 1964, the U.S. Supreme Court refused to hear
the case.

The court's rejection put an end to Musmarmo’s battle, validat-
ing the primary victory of Genevieve Blatt. The fight, however, had
destroyed any chance Blatt had of defeating Hugh Scott. She barely
had time to mount a campaign before election day. Nevertheless, she
nearly pulled off a spectacular upset, losing by only 26,000 out of a
total of more than 4.6 million votes cast. Her loss in both Philadel-
phia and Allegheny counties caused the newspapers of both regions
to question what had happened to the once strong Democratic or-
ganizations. Lawrence, curiously, failed to note the absence of leader-
ship in either area. While regretting the outcome, he laid the loss at
the feet of Blatt, suggesting that her inability to carry the ethnic, par-
ticularly Italian, neighborhoods in Philadelphia and Pittsburgh led
to her defeat. Election returns from South Philadelphia and the Italian
wards in Pittsburgh show the accuracy of Lawrence's analysis, but
he overlooked the fact that Musmanno had failed to do as well as
expected in either area. In fact, Democratic voting returns from nearly
all sections of the state were lower than in previous years. The or-
ganization was clearly less effective in 1964.23

To Lawrence the election outcome did not indicate a weakness
in party leadership but was simply further evidence of the folly of
primary battles, a tenet of his since 1931. In 1966 he was faced with
irrefutable evidence he could no longer ignore. His absence from the
day-to-day scene, the anti-organization spirit of the era, and no doubt
his advancing age were having their effects. The organization he had
built almost single-handedly was rapidly disintegrating.

Early in Ianuary 1966, Milton Shapp, a fifty-three-year-old million-
aire electronics manufacturer from Philadelphia, met with David
Lawrence in Washington, D.C. Shapp had campaigned hard for Iohn
Kennedy and made a brief attempt to win the U.S. Senate nomina-
tion in 1964. Lawrence was pleased when Shapp made a quick exit
from the race after failing to win the party's endorsement, but he could
not be counted among his supporters. Shapp was too brash, had too
much money, and expected to move in at the top of the party. He

In Service to the Nation l> 381

was unwilling to pay his dues. In addition, he made no attempt to
fit into the Philadelphia organization. He was not a maverick like
McClelland and Roberts, who refused to support party causes but
reaped the benefits of party membership. Milton Shapp was a true
independent. In early 1966 he owed allegiance to no one.

Shapp boldly informed Lawrence that he intended to enter the
Democratic primary election for governor of the state but that he
would not seek the endorsement of the state policy committee. Law-
rence could barely control himself. He argued that Shapp would only
hurt the party and ensure a Republican victory.-'39

On the surface, political analysts would find it diflcicult to quar-
rel with Lawrence's conclusion. Shapp was totally unknown. A Shapp
poll in Iohnstown and Eric turned up only one of two hundred voters
in either city who had ever heard of him. He had never run for politi-
cal oflice before. He had absolutely no support among Democratic
leaders. He was physically unimpressive—short, stoop-shouldered,
with the kind of loose jowls cartoonists love to draw. He spoke slowly
in a nasalized monotone—no one would ever vote for Milton Shapp
because of his style of delivery. Finally, he was a Iew in a state that
had never elected a Iew to a major office.

Shapp, however, had two advantages that appeared to be lacking
among Pennsylvania Democrats in 1966 : money and organization. As
a multimillionaire committed to winning election to high office, he
was willing and able to finance his own campaign. He hired two aides,
Ioe Napolitan and Oscar Iager, who put together an organization and
a campaign unlike any ever seen in Pennsylvania. Napolitan became
the advertising man, fashioning the image and making certain that
no detail was overlooked. ”With skillful TV and still photography and
a minimum of personal appearances,” he wrote to the candidate, ”we
can compensate for the fact that you don't look like Clark Gable. You
wouldn't even if you grew a mustache. But I wish to hell you'd get

~ rid of those maroon socks.”3° lager, who prepared Shapp’s speeches,

carefully highlighted the one advantage he had over other candidates,
his intelligence. It was Iager who insisted that Shapp run a strongly
issue-oriented campaign to demonstrate his understanding of com-
plex issues.

The State Democratic Committee met in Harrisburg on 15 Feb-
ruary to select its candidates for the primary. Although Shapp had
already announced his candidacy, no one appeared concerned over
his challenge. The eastern members of the committee, as they had
in 1964, made their wishes known, and the endorsement of Robert
Casey, a young state senator in the Iohn Kennedy mold from Scran-

18 <1 Don’t call me boss

corrected it where necessary. It is possible to see his support of the
social reforms from the New Deal through the Great Society, his
role in Pennsylvania's Little New Deal, and much of the legislation
enacted during his administrative terms as the result of a broad and
well-formulated liberal philosophy. However, such does not appear
to be the case. His early experience taught him that ills existed in
American society, and, as he gained power, he attempted to correct
those that became most pressing. The issues he chose to champion-
workingmen’s compensation, health care, labor legislation, and
others — found their origin in his working-class background. He even
saw the Pittsburgh Renaissance as a means of providing workers of
all classes with a decent living and working environment.

Admittedly, Lawrence did not exhibit many of these beliefs as
a young, would-be politician. Like his father and Billy Brennen, he
supported the causes of labor and those issues currently popular with
the Democratic party. His most intense interest, however, was in see-
ing a Democrat in office——almost any ofiice or any Democrat would
do. Brennen, aware of the competitive nature of his protégé, a com-
petitiveness he did not share, encouraged Lawrence to expand his in-
volvement. In 1912., twenty-three-year—old David accompanied Bren-
nen to the Democratic National Convention as a page. It was, up to
that moment, the crowning achievement in the young politician's
career. ”T he proceedings were completely fascinating to a lad of my
age and I became devoted to politics even though my favorite can-
didate, Champ Clark, lost to Governor [Woodrow] Wilson. I later be-
came a major advocate of Wilson/'33

While at the convention, Lawrence met another rising young poli-
tician from south of Pittsburgh, Ioseph Guffey, a wealthy Penn-
sylvania delegate from Westmoreland County. Guffey, a young man
of striking appearance, had attended Princeton during the years of
Wilson's presidency there and campaigned for his election as gover-
nor of New Iersey in 1910. One of the few members of the Pennsyl-
vania delegation who actually knew Wilson, Guffey argued vocifer-
ously in his support. When that proved futile, he broke from the
delegation to give Wilson his vote for the nomination. GuHey’s sup-
port of Wilson on each of the forty-six ballots necessary to nominate
him, together with his generous financial contributions, earned Wil-
son's lasting gratitude.“ More importantly for Guffey, it made him
one of the leading Democrats in Pennsylvania.

Lawrence approached Gufiey during his convention fight, and
the two had several dinners together. They struck up a friendship
that, although stormy at times, was mutually beneficial. They met

382 <1 Don't call me boss

ton, seemed a certainty following an unsuccessful attempt to lure
George Leader from political retirement. If he had any objections,
Lawrence did not raise them. ”I don't think Lawrence ever bought
the business that Casey was like Kennedy. But he didn't really have
anybody else he could counter with so he went along with their en-
dorsement/'31 Lawrence's absence had left him unaware of the rising
young candidates within the party. The meeting was to have been
a pro forma endorsement, but Milton Shapp stole the show. His per-
formance should have given the party leaders an indication that he
would be a formidable opponent.

As a member of the committee, Shapp explained, ”I was eligible
to attend the meeting but waited until all the county chairmen and
committee members were inside the hall.” Then, ”with cameras whir-
ring, I opened the doors and made my entrance.” He marched directly
to the podium and read a brief prepared statement to the effect that
he welcomed the support of all registered Democrats in Pennsylvania
but did not seek the endorsement of the state committee. ”I want
to be the candidate of all Pennsylvania Democrats not just the candi-
date of their party's leaders,” he said, looking straight into the tele-
vision cameras.” When he left, the cameras showed the two large
auditorium doors closing behind him, symbolically separating him
from the party organization. Shapp was in a perfect position to brand
whoever the organization endorsed as the handpicked candidate of
the bosses. His theatrical performance received television coverage,
not only throughout the state but on national networks as well. The
campaign had been launched in grand style.

When the endorsement meeting resumed following a brief recess
to ”settle the audience,” the party leaders proceeded as usual. Casey
was endorsed on the first ballot, as were all the other candidates. En-
dorsement of a candidate for lieutenant governor was postponed for
two weeks to give Casey an opportunity to participate in the deci-
sion. The slate no doubt had Lawrence smiling. The candidates for
the five major contested oflices represented all the elements he looked
for in a ticket: three Protestants, two Catholics ; three from the east-
em part of the state, two from the west, two women; one black, two
Irish-Americans, one part-Italian, and one Serbo-Croatian. (In addi-
tion, the candidate for lieutenant governor, Leonard Staisey, was al-
most totally blind.) Speaking later at a Democratic fund-raising din-
ner, Lawrence called it a UN ticket, reminiscent of the Allegheny
County slate he put together in the mid 1930s.

Casey ran an efficient campaign, appearing before enthusiastic
crowds throughout the state. Although polls taken several weeks be-

In Service to the Nation [> 383

fore the mid May primary showed him to be well ahead of the chal-
lenger, the organization could produce neither workers nor funds to
sustain his early lead.

The Shapp campaign, aside from the dramatic first day, had got-
ten off to a rocky start, but by mid March many of its problems had
been eliminated. It focused on advertising organized by Napolitan,
speeches by the candidate, and press releases written by lager. The
”man against the machine” advertising blitz, which used billboards,
buses, television, radio, newspapers, and direct mail, was described
as ”the most intensive media campaign in the state's political his-
tory.” Shapp out-traveled his Democratic opponent, delivering four
or five speeches a day, each on a different issue, thus enabling lager
to prepare separate press releases and emphasizing Shapp’s command
of a wide range of issues.33

Following the pattern set by David Lawrence years before, Shapp’s
committee organized support groups among blacks (a major coup was
the endorsement of Martin Luther King, ]r.), ethnic voters, business
groups, veterans’ organizations, and labor unions (starting with the
United Electrical Workers at his own electronics firm, Ierrold). Shapp
even hired his own poll watchers on primary election day to watch
over his interests in predominantly organization districts.34

In retrospect, the results of the 1966 Democratic primary should
have been easy to predict, but the organization appeared stunned by
its second consecutive defeat. Shapp outpolled Casey by nearly 5o,ooo
votes. Lawrence, at his customary spot behind the desk at Demo-
cratic headquarters in Pittsburgh to oversee the returns, read the
figures in a low voice as the ward and county tally sheets were passed
on to him. As the evening wore on he grew grimmer. When a Shapp
supporter appeared to ”oFfer friendship,” he was ordered to leave. What
became clear was that both the Allegheny County and Philadelphia
organizations had failed to deliver the expected support. Casey car-
ried the two Democratic strongholds by only I344 and 8226 votes re-
spectively. The once powerful organization had been beaten almost
single-handedly by an unknown political novice. The so-called Law-
rence machine had demonstrated its vulnerability.

Fortunately for the organization, the campaign had been surpris-
ingly free of rancor, and Milton Shapp realized that he would need
the party to defeat his Republican opponent. Lawrence appeared
equally anxious to effect a reconciliation— Shapp, after all, was highly
preferable to any Republican. Less than two weeks after Shapp’s stun-
ning victory, Lawrence told the Pennsylvania Federation of Demo-
cratic Women, ”I intend to do everything I can to make certain that

384 <1 Don't call me boss

all Democratic candidates win in November. Mr. Shapp deserves a
united enthusiastic Democratic party and that is what we are and
what we intend to be. All of us accept the decision of the voters.”
Shortly thereafter, Shapp met with Lawrence at the Pittsburgh Hil-
ton Hotel to inform him that he was now the candidate of the party.
Lawrence reacted like a pro, Shapp related. ”Lawrence had a stake
in this thing too. He wanted to get his legislators elected in Harris-
burg. He wanted Democrats elected to Congress. If he and I carried
on a feud—and he was in a better position to win than I-—we would
both be hurt.” An accord was reached. Lawrence would do what he
could to bring the organization around to Milton Shapp. Shapp’s own
people would continue to operate independently, but they would
also assist other Democrats on the ticket. Lawrence also agreed to
speak on Shapp’s behalf in the fall campaign whenever his Washing-
ton duties permitted. In September he issued word to organization
regulars that there was ”to be no cutting of Milton Shapp,” in the gen-
eral election.35

V

Lawrence kept his word, giving a number of pro-Shapp speeches
in the early fall, but the biggest address was to occur on Friday eve-
ning, 4 November at Pittsburgh's Syria Mosque. It was the traditional
end-of-campaign rally formerly held at Carnegie Music Hall on the
North Side. Shapp and all the candidates were to be there, and there
was to be a brief pep rally in front of the stage. ”On the stage we had
a band and Don Brockett and Barbara [a local variety act], a big show
called ’Let’s Clap for Shapp.’ It was fantastic/'36 Lawrence, in intro-
ducing Shapp to the party regulars, would give orders to get out the
vote in the election five days later.

Lawrence, as was his custom, arrived in Pittsburgh from Wash-
ington around 2:00 P.M. He flew now rather than taking the train. He
was met at the Allegheny County Airport by a party worker, who
drove him directly to URA headquarters. There he presided over the
monthly meeting, which lasted slightly over two hours. Business in-
cluded approval of the final working drawings of a Bluff Street hous-
ing project, the opening of bids on a project for the Chartiers Valley,
southwest of the city, and approval of certificates of completion for
an East Liberty town house project. Reflecting his current work in
Washington, Lawrence expressed particular interest in the housing
projects. The meeting adjourned at 5:30 P.M., probably with a sharp
rap of the chairman's ring on the large oak table.37

Lawrence walked the several blocks to the Stouffer’s Restaurant

In Service to the Nation D 385

on Wood Street to meet his grandson David Donahoe, who was arriv-
ing by bus. The dinner was punctuated by Lawrence’s account of his
week in Washington and questions regarding the events that filled
young David's week. It was a familiar and comfortable ritual for the
two. Donahoe, still in high school, was to accompany his grandfather
to the rally, as he had so many times in the past. When they arrived,
there was virtually no one there, a fact that in itself gave an indica-
tion of the changes that had taken place. On such an occasion in the
past, the hall would have been crowded by this time. Although it even-
tually filled to just over half capacity, clearly the old campaigner was
not pleased. When asked by a passerby, ”How are we doing, gover-
nor,” he snapped, ”Well, I'll tell you this machine that I am supposed
to be the head of isn't doing so damn good tonight.” His mood con-
tinued to be somewhat sour, and when the evening's events did not
begin promptly at 7:30 as scheduled, he leaned over to Frank Ambrose
and barked, ”Tell that Iim Knox to get this danmed thing started, will
you!” (Knox, whom Lawrence had brought into politics in 1938, was
now county chairman and had organized the event.) Ambrose imme-
diately informed Knox that the boss was getting impatient. Knox re-
quired no second warning, and the rally began a few minutes later.33

Candidates for several local offices, a state judgeship, and lieu-
tenant governor were introduced and made brief comments. The par-
tisan audience showed its support of each, although many—like Frank
Ambrose, who was missing an Elks party—would probably have pre-
ferred to be elsewhere. But the ”mayor” or the ”chief,” as some called
him, was back in town, and out of respect for him they canceled any
other engagement to be present. They owed it to him.

Iim Knox briefly introduced the man who truly needed no intro-
duction, at least to this audience, many of whom literally owed their
livelihoods to him. The seventy-seven-year-old Lawrence, now nearly
blind in one eye, issued a call, as he had done so many times before,
for party unity. He began in a slow, deliberate voice, as if he didn't
quite believe what he was about to say. ”I have been up and down
this state campaigning for Milton Shapp since three days after the
primary. There is less defection among the Democrats at this time
than I have ever seen in twenty-five years. I've never been prouder
than I am now of the Democratic party.” He quickly warmed up as
he turned his comments toward the Republican opponents whom he
had attacked thousands of times before. ”The Republicans are shak-
ing because we have a candidate who can match them in spending
money. I heard this governor we have [Scranton] say he regretted that
the Democrats didn't have a candidate with experience. His experi-

386 <l Don’t call me boss

ence prior to running for governor was one year in Congress. Milt
Shapp has been in the forefront of governmental business for years.”39
Those close to the Democratic scene in Pittsburgh can recall the
next few moments as vividly as they remember where they were and
what they were doing when they heard of the death of Roosevelt, the
end of World War II, or the assassination of Iohn F. Kennedy. Frank
Ambrose was looking at his watch— it was 8:3o—wondering whether
the rally would end in time for him to catch the end of the Elks party.
Iim Knox was looking at Lawrence's ”old dyed shoes.” ”]ust the day
before he said to me, ’Iimmy, where do you buy your shoes? I've got
to get a pair.”’ Huck Fenrich was looking over the crowd, noting those
who were absent. Iames Helbert, political editor of the Pittsburgh
Press, who had momentarily looked away, was startled by a crash.4°
Lawrence hesistated, then repeated the last two words, ”for years,”
and stumbled backward, carrying the lectem with him. He then
lurched forward, saying clearly into the microphone, ”I’m fainting.”
Knox, seated in the first row of the auditorium, reached Lawrence
immediately. ”He collapsed in my arms and we laid him down on
the floor.” Huck Fenrich reached him second and began to massage
his chest. Karen McGuire, a nurse at Ohio Valley General Hospital,
rushed to the front and applied mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Some-
one put in a call to the police, and within minutes an ambulance ar-
rived from the nearby No. 4 Station. Lawrence was carried from the
auditorium at 8:40 and rushed to Presbyterian University Hospital.
Back in the auditorium, a stunned Genevieve Blatt remained on
the floor, where she had knelt in prayer moments after the event.
Nearby Mayor Ioe Barr and other Democratic officials milled around
in shock. Knox called for a silent prayer. He then adjourned the
meeting and the crowd left. Milton Shapp, who was late arriving at
the auditorium, met the departing crowd on the front steps. Informed
of Lawrence's collapse by Ierry Lawrence, he immediately went to
the hospital, where an all-night vigil by family and friends began.
Lawrence, whose heart had stopped twice before he reached the
hospital, never regained consciousness. He remained in the hospital
for seventeen days, never aware of the flood of messages that poured
in from across the nation. Nor did he learn of Milton Shapp’s defeat
in the gubernatorial election. Presbyterian University Hospital issued
daily bulletins, but his personal physician, Campbell Moses, removed
any reason for hope on 6 November. ”There is no chance of recovery,”
he stated at a somber press conference. ”Only Mr. Lawrence's good
general physique has enabled him to survive beyond expectations/'41
Dave Lawrence died at 2:55 P.M. on 21 November 1966. ”He liter-

In Service to the Nation D 387

ally slept away,” his doctor said. ”There was no struggle. His heart
stopped.” The following morning the Post Gazette ran a cartoon by
Cy Hungerford captioned ”DaVe’s Last Fight.” It showed a boxer felled
by the Grim Reaper. Above the fighter were the words ”Pittsburgh’s
old Champion.” Lawrence had told Press writer Kap Monahan just
one month earlier, ”Don’t retire—Don’t think of it. Keep on at your
work and when your time comes, why not die in harness? I intend
to do just that.” He had kept his last promise.“

388

Epilogue

The attention of most Pittsburghers was fixed on David Lawrence
between 21 and 25 November 1966. All three of the city's newspapers
ran editorials eulogizing him and carried numerous features high-
lighting his lengthy career. Photographic essays accompanied each
article. Television station WIIC ran a one-hour special, and several
radio stations did the same. The Reverend Charles Owen Rice, an
old supporter who had lately become critical, provided the best sum-
mary of Lawrence's political life in a lengthy article in the Pittsburgh
Catholic.

The man was a pragmatic idealist. He believed in causes and
he served them. He also believed in power politics and was a
frank partisan. Within his own party he had his special flock
which he tended with care and some stern discipline. He was
always willing to pull back himself and his own faction so that
the party as a whole would benefit. He was a compromiser of
ambitions. He sought to reward the faithful and he looked with
a baleful eye on those who would crash the inner circle with-
out the proper apprenticeship. Enemies within the party were
the objects of his private scorn, but publicly he observed the
amenities as well as the realities. It is due to him that the
party in this area was not torn apart by factionalism. He co-
existed with men who hated him and whom he certainly did
not love.

It fell to Lawrence to adapt an old style political machine
into modern usage. Democrats had to be elected to positions of
power, but once in, they had to serve the community. The
faithful had to be fed, but they could not be allowed to gorge

Epilogue l> 389

themselves and in office they had to perform with acceptable
efficiency. It was quite a challenge and he brought it off}

In a five-column obituary, the New York Times made a similar
assessment. ”He was one of those men who worked in politics as
others do in law or medicine, as a profession or craft. He served his
apprenticeship in a rougher period of big city politics and he learned
his lessons starting at the ward level. When the style of politics
changed and the ward heeler began to give way to the sophistication
of public relations, Mr. Lawrence adapted. . . . While the Pendergasts,
the Curleys and the Hagues were watching their machines crumble,
Mr. Lawrence was being elected governor of the third most populous
state in the country/'2

Telegrams from dignitaries throughout the nation poured into the
city and were printed in the papers. Among those sending condolences
were President Iohnson, Vice-President Humphrey, fonner President
Truman, Senators Robert Kennedy and Hugh Scott, nearly every state
governor including William Scranton, political bosses Iacob Arvey
and Carmine Di Sapio, and Philadelphia Mayor Iames Tate. Local
dignitaries such as Mayor Barr, Iames Knox, Senator Ioseph Clark,
and labor leader I. W. Abel offered comments of praise and sorrow.
The business community, including Willard Rockwell, Leslie B.
Worthington, and Richard King Mellon, with whom Lawrence had
worked so closely in rebuilding Pittsburgh, issued public statements.
Even his old political foes David B. Roberts, William McClelland,
Michael Musmanno, and Eddie Leonard had words of praise for him.
The board of governors of Bonds for Israel announced that it was be-
stowing its highest honor, the Eleanor Roosevelt Humanities Award,
posthumously on the man who had raised hundreds of thousands of
dollars for the Iewish state.

Lesser known Pittsburghers, seeking to share their grief, sent let-
ters to the editors of the city's newspapers. Their outpourings appeared
daily. Flags flew at half-staff on all state, county, and city property
and would do so for the next thirty days. On the day of the funeral,
Friday, 2 5 November, state, county, and city government offices were
closed.

The funeral Mass for David Leo Lawrence was one of the grand-
est Pittsburgh had ever seen. At about 9:30 A.M. the family and close
friends gathered at the McCabe Funeral Home in Shadyside for a final
private prayer. When the family had completed the ritual of a last
goodbye, eight plainclothesmen from the Pittsburgh police force
moved in to carry the casket to the hearse. Across the street the Sis-

390 <1 Don’t call me boss

ters of Charity of Sacred Heart Parish stood in the slight drizzle that
began to fall. The church bells rang every four seconds.

A cortege of twenty polished black and gray cars moved through
the streets of the East End toward the center of the city. Police offi-
cers along the route saluted, and people left offices and businesses
to view the procession. Some were merely curious, but most were
paying their final respects. ”For an old professional politician who
liked to see the crowds turn out, it was a fitting tribute, and he was
among old friends all the way.”3 The cortege arrived at St. Mary of
Mercy Church at the Point, where David Lawrence had spent many
Saturdays during his youth helping his mother tend the altar, and
where he later served as usher. Nearly two thousand people jammed
the church. Others gathered in the basement and the church audi-
torium to view the proceedings via closed circuit television. An over-
flow crowd waited silently in the rain outside.

Inside, Iohn Gabriel, chief sergeant-at—arms, carrying the state
mace draped in black, proceeded up the aisle of the small church. He
was followed by an altar boy bearing the crucifix and by Bishop Iohn
Wright and five other bishops, in addition to many lesser clergy. They
were followed by the casket bearing the body of David Lawrence. The
small procession passed dozens of local politicians, the thirty-two
Democratic ward chainnen, several of Lawrence's old cronies such
as Huck Fenrich and Frank Ambrose, and hundreds of unknown west-
ern Pennsylvanians who arrived early enough to acquire the few seats
available in the church. Farther down the aisle was a special section
reserved for the four hundred dignitaries who traveled from as far away
as Calcutta to be present. New York Senator Robert Kennedy, whose
arrival caused a stir among onlookers, was seated just behind the
Lawrence family with two of Lawrence's closest and oldest associ-
ates, Ioe Barr and Iim KnoX.4

During the Mass, Bishop Wright delivered a brief eulogy. He
praised Lawrence for his ”humanitarian service,” singling out his ef-
forts in Pittsburgh and Washington ”as a battler for fair housing.” He
then told the mourners: ”David Lawrence's earthly story ends where
it began, here at The Point of his beloved native city. . . . Thus loyal
to the end, . . . he chose to be brought back precisely to this part of
Pittsburgh to take his leave of his friends and precisely this church
to receive the final blessing of his church/'5

The neighborhood of his youth, like the man being eulogized by
the famous and the humble, had undergone a dramatic transforma-
tion. The once shabby environment, with its warehouses, railroad
yards, and rundown homes, had been replaced by gleaming office

Epilogue l>

buildings and parks. As David Lawrence had transformed himself from
an uneducated son of a minor politician and laborer into one of the
nation's leading urban statesmen, so too did he bring his city from
”unbelievab1e ugliness into shining beauty/'6 It was an accomplish-
ment of which he was most proud. He would have been pleased to
return to the site of his greatest achievement. It was for him, most
certainly, a fitting conclusion.

391

Growing Up [>

frequently in Pittsburgh during the years immediately following the
convention, and Guffey even invited Lawrence to join him for a week-
end of deer hunting on the family property. Lawrence decided that
he hated hunting, but the experience proved useful, strengthening
their relationship.35

Lawrence was the first to benefit directly from the Guffey-
Lawrence liaison. Wilson rewarded Guffey for his support at the
1912 convention by naming him patronage chief for all of western
Pennsylvania, and in 1914 Guffey named his friend to his first offi-
cial political position: minority commissioner on the Voter Registra-
tion Commission for the city of Pittsburgh. The appointment pro-
vided Lawrence with his first salaried position, at $4,000 per year,
freeing him for the first time from serious financial concem.36 The
position also enabled both men to observe firsthand the lack of or-
ganization in the Democratic party as well as the seedier side of Pitts-
burgh politics. Voters in Pittsburgh were required to register for each
election by showing a tax receipt for current paid-up taxes. Those
not owning property paid a fifty-cent poll tax. Ioseph Guffey was sur-
prised when he discovered the abuses to which such a system could
be put.

I learned early in my first campaign in Pittsburgh, that politics
was not entirely a debate over the great issues, as we had so
earnestly viewed in our undergraduate discussions at Prince-
ton. I came down to earth with a bump, at half past nine one
morning just before a Pittsburgh mayoralty election.

I reached the office quite early. The [Democratic] head-
quarters rarely opened before noon, but I was eager, and I had
things to do. As I approached I saw shadows through the head-
quarters window. They were dancing up and down in a most
peculiar manner. I watched from the outside and finally identi-
fied the dancing figures as Dennis Fox and Ioe Kraus, both offi-
cers of the Allegheny County Democratic Committee. Muster-
ing my courage, I opened the door. My sudden appearance
startled them until they recognized me.

”Oh, it's you, is it?” one of them said, with real relief. ”Y es,”
I said, still puzzled, ”VVhat are you doing?”

They looked at each other. ”Aging tax receipts.”

And that in fact was what they were doing. In those days it
was necessary, in case your right to vote was challenged, to
have a tax receipt either for normal taxes or for payment of
the poll tax. Many potential voters had neither and it was ex-

19


Appendices
Notes

Index


A P P E N D IX A
Pittsburgh Renewal Projects

These tables, reporting on Pittsburgh renewal projects, were prepared
by Robert Pease.

Time Table
Certified for Approval by Start of Start of
Project Redevelopment“ City Council Acquisition Demolition

I&L, South Side 4/17/49 11/22/49 1949 1949
Gateway Center 3/29/47 1/27/50 1950 1950
I&L, Hazelwood 1/30/51 10/31/52 4/53 1953
I&L, Scotch Bottom 2/15/55 10/31/52 4/53 1953
DeSota-Thackeray 3/3 1/ 53 10/28/53 3/54 1955
Centre-Morgan 3/31/53 10/28/53 3/54 1956-57
Lower Hill 8/1/50 9/ 16/55 4/56 11/56
Chateau St. West 7/14/59 5/5/60 1/61 6/61
East Liberty (A-B-C) 4/26/59 7/8/60b 3/61 10/51
Allegheny Center 12/22/59 6/12/61 10/61 10/62
Bluff Street 6/17/52 7/13/62 12/62 1/64
Sheraden Park 2/1/63 4/15/63 None None
Allegheny General 7/20/62 7/8/63 1/64 8/64
Stadium 10/30/61 12/16/63 8/64 7/65
Allegheny South 11/22/63 4/7/64 9/64 -
Homewood North 11/30/62 2/66 —— -

a. By City Planning Commission.
b. Amended plan for East Liberty B & C approved by Council 5/22/63; start of ac-
quisition, 11/63 and 5/64; demolition start, 6/64.

395

Financial Data, 1949-65

Est. Est. Private Estimated Taxable

Public 6') Inst Assessed Values
Cost Investment Before Renewal After Renewal
Project (millions) (millions) (millions) (millions)
]&L, South Side $ .06 $ 80.0 $ 6.87 $ 21.3
Gateway Center .60 118.0 8.30 44.8
I&L, Hazelwood .05 1.4 1.95 1.6
]&L, Scotch Bottom .03 .54 .32 .06
DeSota-Thackeray .67 13.06 .35 (Exempt)
Centre-Morgan .60 12.20 .44 (Exempt)
Lower Hill 18.60 90.0 8.94 33.0
Chateau St. West 12.10 9.0 3.52 5.4
East Liberty {A-B-C) 42.28 45.5 29.24 41.0
Allegheny Center 24.07 65.0 9.25 31.0
Blufi Street 9.23 31.0 2.59 5.0
Sheraden Park .06 2.7 .03 1.2
Allegheny General .03 5.5 .57 .2
Stadium 21.49 25.0 5.04 NDa
Allegheny South .06 ND .39 ND
Homewood North 3.30 ND 3.76 ND
Totals $133.23 $498.90 $81.56 $184.56

ND = Not determined yet.
a. Publicly owned stadium land is tax exempt, but future development of air rights
will produce tax revenue.

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398

APPENDIX B
David L. Lawrence: Significant Dates

1903

1918
I920

1921

1922
I931
1933

I934

1940

1942

1945-59
I959-63
1963-66

Clerk-typist in law office of William I. Brennen, Alle-
gheny County Democratic Chairman.

Entered army, 18 September.

Elected chairman, Allegheny County Democratic
Committee.

Entered insurance business with Frank I. Harris; mar-
ried Alyce Golden.

Iob as secretary of Voter Registration Commission.
Ran for county commissioner and lost.

Appointed collector of internal revenue by Franklin D.

Roosevelt.

Named state chairman of Democratic party, appointed
secretary of commonwealth under Governor George
Earle (1934-39).

Named Democratic national committeeman from

Pennsylvania (he retained this post until his death) ; re-

signed as State Democratic Party Chairman.

Death of his two sons; again named Democratic State
Chairman (until 1945).

Elected mayor of Pittsburgh.
Elected governor of Pennsylvania.

Served as chairman, President's Committee on Equal
Opportunity in Housing.

Notes

Three major groups of interviews provided information for this study. Ninety-five in-
terviews were conducted during the early 1970s to gather information related to the
Pittsburgh Renaissance. These transcripts are on file at the Archives of Industrial So-
ciety (AIS), Hillman Library, University of Pittsburgh. Also in the early 1970s, Father
Thomas Donaghy interviewed more than thirty individuals for his own work on Law-
rence. The Donaghy interviews are held in the La Salle College Oral History Collec-
tion, Philadelphia. My own interviews (87) were conducted between 1980 and 1985;
transcripts are available at A18.

l> Growing Up

1. David Brody, The Steelworkers in Amer1'ca: The Non- Union Era (Cambridge,
I960), p. 55.

2. Willard Glazier, ”The Great Furnace of America,” in Peculiarities of American
Cities (Philadelphia, 1883), pp. 333-34.

3. Francis G. Couvares, The Remaking of Pittsburgh: Class and Culture in an
Industrializing City, I877—-I919 (Albany, N.Y., 1984), p. 86.

4. Pittsburgh Leader, 18 October 1903.

5. Victor A. Walsh, ”Across the Big Wather: Irish Community Life in Pitts-
burgh and Allegheny City, 18 50-188 5" (Ph.D. diss., University of Pittsburgh, 1983), pp.
182, 184.

6. Biographical sketch of Reverend John A. O'Rourke in Diocesan Documents,
II (1856-1873), n.p., in Walsh, ”Across the Big Wather,” p. 185.

7. The 1900 U. S. Manuscript Census for Pittsburgh and Allegheny City gives
the year of Lawrence's birth as 1890 but all other sources give 1889.

8. The Hopkins Real Estate Atlas, Ward 1, Pittsburgh, Pa., 19oo—19o7, Pittsburgh
Leader, advertisements, Iune, October 1898. See also, Robert C. Alberts, The Shaping
of the Point: Pittsburgh's Renaissance Park (Pittsburgh, 1980), pp. 36-37.

9. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 11 January 1963.

10. Interview with Anna Mae Donahoe, 9 February 1981, p. 2. Citations refer to
interviews conducted by the author unless otherwise indicated.

11. Interview with David L. Lawrence by Sally Shames, 21 Ianuary 1955, unpaginated.

12. Pittsburgh Press, 14 March 1946; interview with Arthur I. Rooney, 25 February

399

400 <1 Notes to Pages 9-20

1981, pp. 1, 2. Sporting life was particularly popular in the Pittsburgh of David Law-
rence’s youth. See Couvares, Remaking of Pittsburgh, esp. chap. 5.

13. Interview with David L. Lawrence by Stefan Lorant, 14 December 1963, p. 41.
The DAR, according to Lawrence, rescued the blockhouse from Powers and other would-
be entrepreneurs by having her evicted and hiring a caretaker to prevent future squatters.

14. Ibid.

15. Ioseph A. Vares, ”David L. Lawrence” (unpublished ms., 1975), p. 11. Provided
to the author by Gerald Lawrence.

16. Pittsburgh Leader, 8 October 1903.

17. Couvares, Remaking of Pittsburgh, p. 67.

18. Saturday Evening Post, 14 March 1959, p. 80.

19. Lawrence interview by Lorant, p. 42.

20. Pittsburgh and Allegheny Directory, (Pittsburgh: R. L. Polk, I904).

21. Interview with Andrew Fenrich, 15 May 1981, p. 9; interview with Iames Knox,
21 April 1981, p. 18.

22. Interview with A. M. Donahoe, p. 16.

23. Lawrence interview by Lorant, p. 42.

24. Ibid., p. 43.

25. Harpers, August 1964, p. 47.

26. Letter from Iohn McGrady to Ioseph A. Vares cited, in Vares, ”Lawrence.”

27. Joseph Guffey, Seventy Years on the Red Fire Wagon: From Tilden to Tru-
man Through New Freedom and New Deal (Privately printed, 1952), p. 18.

28. Samuel P. Hays, ”The Politics of Reform in Municipal Government in the
Progressive Era,” Pacific Northwest Quarterly 55 (October 1964): 159 if.

29. Interview with Al Conway, 20 August 1982.

30. Hays, ”Politics of Reform,” p. 159.

31. Ibid.

32. Ioseph Hutmacher, ”Urban Liberalism and the Age of Reform,” Iournal of
American History 49 (September 1962): 232, 235. ”The great source of working class
liberalism was experience. . . . Such people were less imbued than the middle class
with the ‘old American creed,’ which expounded individualism, competition, and laissez
faire free enterprise as the means of advance from ‘rags to riches.’ . . . Their felt needs,
largely of the bread and butter type, were of the here and now. . . . Their outlook tended
to be more practical and ’possibilistic’ than that of some middle-class Progressives who
allowed their reform aspirations to soar to utopian heights. . . . Their view of govem-
ment was much less permeated with fears of paternalism and centralization than that
of traditionally individualistic middle-class reformers many of whom abated their at-
tachment to the laissez-faire principle with only the greatest trepidation.”

33. Interview with Lawrence by Lorant, p. 46.

34. Gufiey, Seventy Years, p. 41 ff. The Guffey family, despite its financial con-
nection with the Mellons in developing the famous Spindletop oil field in Texas, sup-
ported the Democratic party for over three generations.

35. Ibid., pp. 99, I00.

36. Minute Book of the Voter Registration Commission of the City of Pittsburgh,
vol. I, 17 February 1914, p. 175, AIS.

37. Guffey, Seventy Years, p. 18.

38. See, for example, Lincoln Steffens, ”Pittsburgh: A City Ashamed,” in The Shame
of the Cities (New York, 1904); and Bruce Stave, The New Deal and the Last Hurrah:
Pittsburgh Machine Politics (Pittsburgh, 1970), p. 66.

39. Minute Books of the Voter Registration Commission, 1914-1924, AIS.

Notes to Pages 21-36 [> 401

40. Ibid.
41. Sally Shames, ”David L. Lawrence, Mayor of Pittsburgh: Development of a
Political Leader” (Ph.D. diss., University of Pittsburgh, 1958), p. 13.

l> Friends, Family, and Work

I. Interview with John P. Robin, 26 March 1983, p. 19.
2. Interview with Andrew Fenrich, 15 May 1981, p. 2, interview with Robin, p.
20; interview with Anna Mae Donahoe, 9 February 1981, p. 17.
3. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, Io April 1929.
4. Copies of federal income tax returns of David L. and Alyce G. Lawrence, 1963-
65, supplied by Gerald Lawrence.

5. Interview with Arthur I. Rooney, 25 February 1981, p. 4.

6. Pittsburgh Press, 6 November 1936.

7. Interview with A. M. Donahoe, p. 2.

8. Minute Books of the Voter Registration Commission of the City of Pittsburgh,
vol. I, 15 October 1918, I4 Iune I924, AIS.

9. Interview with Andrew Bradley by Thomas Donaghy, I August 1974, p. 10.

IO. Interview with Frank Ambrose by Thomas Donaghy, August 1974, pp. I, 2;
interview with Walter Giesey, 23 October 1982, p. 23.

II. Interview with Gerald Lawrence, 17 August 1982, p. 4.

I2. U.S. Manuscript Census for Pittsburgh and Allegheny City, 1900, 1409 Rebecca
Street.

13. Interview with A. M. Donahoe, p. 7. The children's birthdates are as follows:
Mary, 18 lune I922, Arma Mae, 15 September 1923, William Brennen, 12 December 1925,
David Leo, 28 August 1928, Gerald, 18 March 1939. The Lawrence residences were on
King Avenue, Evaline Street, Winebiddle Street, and at 355 South Aiken Avenue, all
in the city's East End. They lived on South Aiken from 1937 until 1966.

14. Interview with A. M. Donahoe, p. 8,- interview with Gerald Lawrence, p. 6.

15. Interview with Gerald Lawrence by Thomas Donaghy, 18 August 1974, inter-
view with A. M. Donahoe, p. 13. The two statements are remarkably similar consider-
ing that one is referring to the 1930s and the other to the late 1940s and early 1950s.

16. Interview with Gerald Lawrence, p. 6.

17. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 3o Iuly I920.

18. Minute Books of the Voter Registration Commission, vol. I, 27 November 1924.

19. Pittsburgh Press, 3 March 1921.

2o. Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 5-20
October 1925; Pittsburgh Press, 4 November 1925.

21. Pittsburgh Press, 31 October 1929.

22. Ibid., I November 1929.

23. Minute Books of the Voter Registration Commission, vol. 1, I920, 192 5, vol. 2,
I929.

24. Pittsburgh Press, I September 1925; Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 30 October 1931.

25. Interview with Genevieve Blatt, 22 lune 1981; interview with David L. Law-
rence by Stefan Lorant, 14 December 1963, p. 48.

26. Interview with Lawrence by Lorant, p. 48.

27. Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 5 November 1924.

28. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 18 April 1928.

29. Pittsburgh Press, 5 November I928; Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 2 November I928.

30. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 3 November 1928; Bruce Stave, The New Deal and

20 <1 Don't call me boss

pensive as well as illegal for political committees to pay a
voter's tax.

To meet this situation both sides had obtained a quantity
of tax receipt blanks. . . . State Senator William Flinn, a Re-
publican leader, had eight unnumbered books. The Democrats
had somehow obtained two unnumbered books from a nearby
county. These receipts were given out to ward leaders and po-
litical committeemen for distribution to voters. But they
couldn't be too clear or too new. That would have aroused sus-
picion when they were presented to the election board. S0 Den-
nis Fox and Ioe Kraus were aging them.37

In spite of many attempts at reform, the system lent itself to
various methods of vote fraud. Voter registration was normally con-
trolled within the wards by paid registrars selected by the ward chair-
men. The machine, usually through the registrar, provided tax receipts
and/or poll tax fees to individuals who voted under their own and
often several other names. Deceased voters, phantom voters, and re-
peaters were a common occurrence in Pittsburgh during the first third
of the twentieth century.33 The Voter Registration Commission, cre-
ated in one attempt to deal with such fraud, was charged with inves-
tigating and ruling on the validity of all voter registrations. However,
its members who were appointed precisely because of their loyalty
to their party, were reluctant to disturb the system. An analysis of
the commission minutes during the ten years Lawrence served indi-
cates that he was a cooperative member. He seldom spoke, and when
he did, his comments, like those of other members, were nearly al-
ways in agreement with those of the commission chairman, Repub-
lican Charles “Buck” McGovern. Fewer than 10 percent of the voter
registration questions that came before the board during Lawrence's
membership were rejected as fraudulent.” Lawrence, it appears, used
his position to hone his skills at working with the Republican ma-
jority and to supplement his income. (By the time of his resignation
in 1924, he was earning $6,000 per year as commission secretary.) He
also secured an appointment for his own political protégé and aide
James P. Kirk as clerk and later full commission member.

It is not clear whether the practice of accepting bogus tax receipts
as documentation of voter registration bothered Lawrence. If so, he
never attempted to act on the concerns of his conscience. But his
work on the commission made him aware of the weakness of his own
party, and he took steps to strengthen it. Democrats, for example,
failed to register at all in four wards in 1915 and 1916 because they

402 <1 Notes to Pages 36-49

the Last Hurrah (Pittsburgh, 1970), pp. 37-39; The Pennsylvania Manual, ”Election Sta-
tistics,” no. 79, 1929, p. 48off.
31. New York Times, 20 Iuly 1931.

{> Crumbs No More

1. Interview with Arthur I. Rooney, 25 February 1981.

2. Pittsburgh Press, 29-30 August, 13 August 1931.

3. Interview with Iames Knox, 23 April 1981.

4. Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, Pittsburgh Sun—Te1egraph, Iuly 1931.

5. Ibid., 7-15 September 1931; Pittsburgh Press, 30 August 1931.

6. Pittsburgh Press, 6 September I931; report of the Western Pennsylvania Bar As-
sociation, typescript in the Pennsylvania Department, Carnegie Library, Pittsburgh.

7. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, I5, 16 September I931; Allegheny County Employ-
ment Records, 1930-35, located in the attic of the City-County Building, Pittsburgh.

8. Pittsburgh Press, 13 September 1930, 19 October 1931.

9. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 28 October I931; Pittsburgh Press, 29 October 1931.

10. Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, Pittsburgh Press, 28 October-5 November 1931.

II. Pittsburgh Press, 5 October 1931, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 29 October 1931.

12. Pittsburgh Press, 30 October 1931.

13. Ibid., 20-25 October 1931.

I4. Lawrence, quoted by Bruce Stave in The New Deal and the Last Hurrah (Pitts-
burgh, I97o), p. 31, Ray Sprigle, ”Lord Gufley of Pennsylvania,” The American Mercury,
November 1936, p. 283.

15. Pittsburgh Press, 23 October 1931.

16. Ibid., 25 October 1931.

17. Ibid., 4 November 1931.

18. Ibid., 5 November 1931; Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 5 November 1931.

I9. Ibid.

20. Philip Klein, A Social Study of Pittsburgh: Community Problems and Social
Services of Allegheny County (New York, 1938), p. I29; interview with anonymous re-
spondent by Weber, 7 October 1966; interview with Raymond Czachowski by Greg
Mahalic, I Iuly 1976, Pittsburgh Oral History Project, Pennsylvania State Archives,
Harrisburg.

21. Klein, Social Study, p. 36ofI; see also Stave, New Deal, pp. IIO-I2.

22. Interview with Al Conway, 20 August I982; Pittsburgh-Post Gazette, 31 March
1932.

23. Lyle Dorsett, Franklin D. Roosevelt and the City Bosses (New York, 1976),
p. 6H.

24. Ioseph F. Guffey, ”Happenings at the Democratic National Convention in
Chicago, I932,” Guffey Archives, Washington and Iefierson College. Gufley’s memo-
randum confirms Lawrence's role as an observer if not a participant in the Roosevelt
camp meetings at the convention.

25. Andrew Buni, Robert L. Vann of the Pittsburgh Courier: Politics and Black
Journalism (Pittsburgh, 1974), p. 178; Pittsburgh Courier, 27 August 1932.

26. Buni, Vann, p. 194, Ira Katznelson, Black Men, White Cities (London, 1973),
p. 84. Varm’s conversion to the Democratic party was consistent with the pattern Katz-
nelson noted in New York, Chicago, and other Northern cities. ”B1ack leaders were
chosen by the white party elite. . . . They were not descriptively representative, in that
their class composition differed strikingly from that of the represented. . . . These liai-

Notes to Pages 50-61 [> 403

son or buffer leaders were given a taste of honey, the illusion of political access and
some visible patronage” (p. 84).

27. Pittsburgh Courier, 8 October 1932.

28. List of Democratic and Republican committeepersons, 1932-34. Graciously
supplied to the author by Bruce Stave.

29. Ibid., U.S. Bureau of the Census, Census Tract Tables of Population and Fami-
lies: I930, Pittsburgh 2, (Washington, D.C., 1932), table I.

30. Lawrence, quoted by Samuel I. Astorino, ”The Decline of the Republican Dy-
nasty in Pennsylvania” (Ph.D. diss., University of Pittsburgh, 1962), p. 179.

31. Thomas E. Williams, ”Will Pennsylvania Go Democratic This Time?” The
Nation, 9 October 1932.

32. Pittsburgh Press, 29 October 1932.; infonnation card circulated to all workers
of Hubbard and Company, Guffey Archives.

33. Pittsburgh Press, 30 September 1932.

34. Samuel I. Astorino, ”The Decline of the Republican Dynasty,” p. 182.

35. Lawrence to Roosevelt, 7 October 1932, Personal File, ”Govemor Lawrence,”
FDR Library.

36. Pittsburgh-Post Gazette, Pittsburgh Press, 20 October 1932.

37. The Pennsylvania Manual, ”Election Statistics,” no. 81, 1933, p. 422 PL; for an
analysis of Pittsburgh ethnic wards in 1930 see Iohn Bodnar, Roger Simon, and Michael
Weber, Lives of Their Own: Blacks, Italians and Poles in Pittsburgh, I900-1930 (Ur-
bana, Ill., 1980), p. 207 ff.; Bruce Stave, New Deal, pp. 37-39.

38. Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, 9 November 1932.

39. Stave, New Deal, p. 56.

40. Ibid. Iones held jobs under Republican Mayor William Magee as press agent
and police superintendent and was the publicity agent for Republican boss Iimmy
Coyne.

41. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 5 Iune I933.

42. Ibid., 7 August 1933; Pittsburgh Press, 28 August 1933.

43. The Republican organization reported campaign expenditures of $91,744, the
bulk of which was supplied by William L. and R. B. Mellon. McArdle’s campaign spend-
ing exceeded $46,000, while Mackrell spent $21,000. The Democratic organization, in
contrast, reported expenditures of $I7,oo0—-Benedum, Gufiey, and Lawrence were listed
as $1000-plus contributors—while Henry spent less than $1700. Pittsburgh Press, 5 Oc-
tober I933.

44. Pittsburgh Press, 2 September 1933.

45. Ibid., 17 August—I5 September 1933.

46. Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, 22 September 1933.

47. Interview with Fred Weir, 24 Iune 1981, p. 13.

48. Pittsburgh Press, 3 September 1933.

49. New York Times, 5 November 1933.

50. Stave, New Deal, p. 76; Pittsburgh Press, 27 October 1933.

51. Interview with Weir, p. I7.

52. Minute Books of the Voter Registration Commission, September 1933, AIS.

53. Pittsburgh Press, 19 October 1933.

54. Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, Pittsburgh Press, 13 lune, I4 August, 16 August, 10
October, 15 October—4 November 1933.

55. Pittsburgh Press, 29 October 1933.

56. Ibid.

57. Stave, New Deal, p. I7off.

404 <l Notes to Pages 62-70

58. List of Democratic and Republican committee persons.

59. Stave, New Deal, pp. 79-80. Stave argues that the Democratic victory was
not an extension of the FDR vote and that McNair’s support came from a different
group of voters from those who voted for Roosevelt. McNair, for example, lost all the
Republican organization-controlled wards in the central city, while FDR won two-thirds
of the same wards. He further argues that McNair’s following derived not from the
black or ethnic blocs but from the upper-class native white population. It appears,
however, that Stave underestimates the extent of ethnic participation by relying on
a calculation of foreign born rather than foreign stock. In Pittsburgh by 1933, the sec-
ond generation fa'r outnumbered their parents as the dominant population group.

60. Ibid., pp. 70-80.

61. Pittsburgh Press, 22 September 1933.

l> Building an Organization

I. Edward C. Banfield and Iames Q. Wilson, City Politics (Cambridge, Mass.,
196 3) ,- William C. Havard, ”From Bossism to Cosmopolitanism,” Annals of the Ameri-
can Academy of Political and Social Science 353 (May 1964): 88; Rexford G. Tugwell,
The Braintrust (New York, 1968), p. 371.

2. Bruce Stave, The New Deal and the Last Hurrah: Pittsburgh Machine Poli-
tics (Pittsburgh, 1970), p. 20; Lyle W. Dorsett, The New Deal and the City Bosses (Port
Washington, N.Y., 1977), p. 21 ff; Iohn H. Mollenkopf, The Contested City (Princeton,
1983) p. 16.

3. Melvin Holli and Peter d’A Jones, eds., Biographical Dictionary of American
Mayors, 1820-1980 (Westport, Conn., 1981).

4. Fred W. Perkins, ”Mr. Gufiey Dispenses Political Iobs,” Pittsburgh Press, 30
September I934; Andrew Buni, Robert L. Vann of the Pittsburgh Courier: Politics and
Black Iournalism (Pittsburgh, 1974), pp. 198-99.

5. Lorena Hickok to Harry Hopkins, 24 Iuly I935, Hopkins File, FDR Library.

6. Pittsburgh Press, 28 October I937; interview with Rita Wilson Kane, 27
November 1983, p. 8.

7. Interview with Al Conway, 20 August 1982, p. 8; interview with Rosemary
Plesett, 14 April 1983, p. II; Commonwealth of Pennsylvania vs. David L. Lawrence in
the Court of Quarter Sessions of Dauphin County, Pa., testimony of E. A. Griflith,
Sept. Session, 1939, vol. 1, pp. 500-02.

8. Pinchot to FDR, 21 December 1935, President's Personal Name File, 289, FDR
Library.

9. Lorena Hickok, quoted in Iames N. I. Henwood, ”Experiment in Relief: The
Civil Works Administration in Pennsylvania, I933—34,” Pennsylvania History 39 (I972):
58; Pittsburgh Press, 2 March 193 5 ; ward data compiled from notes supplied by Bruce
Stave.

10. Donald S. Howard, The WPA and Federal Relief Policy (New York, 1934), p.
356. The indices of poverty included homes with no income earner, general assistance
cases, and employment in emergency work. Nearly 90 percent of all WPA jobs in
Pennsylvania required that the recipient be listed on the relief rolls prior to receiving
an appointment.

II. David L. Lawrence to Pittsburgh Democratic Ward Chainnen, quoted in the
Pittsburgh Press, I March 1935.

12. Pittsburgh Press, 8 March 193 5 ; Stave, New Deal, p. 169,- interview with John P.
Robin, 26 March 1983, p. 7 ,- Interview with Al Tronzo by Dodie Carpenter, 19 August
1974, P- 2, A15-

Notes to Pages 70-88 D 405

13. Stave data on ward committeemen.

I4. Stave, New Deal, p. I69; William I. Keefe and William C. Seyler, ”Precinct
Politicians in Pittsburgh,” Social Science 35 (January I960): 28 ; interview with lake Wil-
liams, 30 March 1983, p. 19.

15. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 2 March, 28 December 1935.

16. Interview with Conway, p. 19-20.

I7. Ibid. Conway testified that nothing detrimental happened to those who failed
to contribute — It was not macing, he insisted. City workers interviewed said that they
seldom saw anyone refuse to give a contribution.

18. Interview with Williams, p. 18.

19. Stave, New Deal, p. 235,- interview with Williams, p. I8; interview with Iohn
McGrady, 3 lune 1983, pp. 1-3. The committeeman from the Eighth Ward resigned after
joining the police; his wife was appointed to succeed him.

2o. Stave, New Deal, p. II2; interview with Williams, p. 20; interview with Con-
way, p. 11.

21. Interview with Conway, p. I4; interview with Fred Weir, 24 Iune I981; inter-
view with Al Conway by Dodie Carpenter, 19 August 1974.

22. Interview with Iames Knox, 28 April 1981, p. 5 ; telephone interview with Knox,
5 October 1984.

23. Interview with Weir, p. 4,- interview with John Jones, 9 February 1981, pp. 5-6.

24. Telephone interview with Knox. The job seeker in question was Peter Fla-
herty, who later became mayor of Pittsburgh by running an anti-organization cam-
paign. His campaign slogan, ”He’s nobody’s boy,” conveniently overlooked the circum-
stances of his first political job.

25. Telephone interview with Knox.

26. Interview with Andrew Fenrich, I 5 May 1981, p. 7; interview with Iones, p. II.

27. Interview with Frank Ambrose by Thomas Donaghy, II July 1984, pp. 7-8.

28. Interview with Rita Wilson Kane, p. 24.

29. Interview with Knox, p. II.

30. Ibid.

31. Interview with Walter Giesey, 23 October 1982.

32. Interview with Conway, p. 8; interview with Williams, p. 5.

33. Interview with Iones, p. 17; interview with Genevieve Blatt, 22 Iune 1981,
pp. 5, I6; Arthur Mann, LaGuardia Comes to Power (Philadelphia, 196 5), p. 28.

34. Interview with Blatt, p. 7.

35. Pittsburgh Press, 19 September 1957.

36. Ibid; interview with Morton Coleman, 15 February 1984, untranscribed.

37. Interview with William Block, 3 March 1984, p. 9.

38. Interviews with Tronzo, untranscribed, Blatt, p. II, Robin, p. 21.

39. Interview with Robin, p. 36.

[> Expanding the Network

1. Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, 19 September 1933.

2. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, II November 1933.

3. The Pittsburgh public safety director controversy was eagerly covered by all
three city newspapers, Ianuary—February 1934. In addition, Bruce Stave has provided
an in depth analysis of the political maneuverings of William McN air during this pe-
riod. See The New Deal and the Last Hurrah: Pittsburgh Machine Politics (Pittsburgh,
1970), p. 87H.

4. Walter Davenport, ”Mayor’s Day In,” Collier’s, 21 April 1934.

406 <1 Notes to Pages 88-106

5. Pittsburgh Press, 29 April 1934.

6. ”One Month of McNair,” Pittsburgh Press, 5 February 1934.

7. Lawrence and McNair, quoted in Stave, New Deal, pp. 91, 92; interview with
Iohn Jones, 9 February 1981.

8. Interview with David L. Lawrence by Stefan Lorant, 4 December 1963.

9. Bruce Bliven, ]r., ”Pennsylvania Under Earle,” The New Republic, 18 August
1937, p. 38; Paul Beers, Pennsylvania Politics: Yesterday and Today (University Park,
Pa., 1980), p. 119,- Richard Keller, Pennsylvania's Little New Deal (New York, 1982),
p. 125.

10. Ray Sprigle, ”Lord Gufiey of Pennsylvania,” American Mercury, November
1936, p. 284.

11. Pennsylvania Manual, ”Election Returns,” no. 81, p. 246 Fl.

12. Interview with James Law, Democratic county chairman, Luzeme County,
Wilkes Barre, 8 lune 1981, p. 1; Pittsburgh-Post Gazette, 5, 9 Iune 1934. Lawrence was
actually required to resign either his federal post or the state chairmanship due to an
edict by Secretary of the Treasury Morganthau that treasury employees holding politi-
cal party posts must quit them by September 1 or forfeit their treasury jobs.

13. Sprigle, ”Lord Guffey,” p. 276.

14. Interview with Law, pp. 3, 4.

15. Commonwealth of Pennsylvania vs. David L. Lawrence in the Court of Quar-
ter Sessions of Dauphin County, Pa., Sept. Session, 1939, vol. 4, p. 1808.

16. Keller, Little New Deal, p. 12 5 H. For a detailed account of the Republican cam-
paign see chap. 5.

17. Chester Harris, Tiger at the Bar: The Life Story of Charles I. Margiotti (New
York, 1956); Paul Beers, Pennsylvania Politics, p. 145.

18. Harris, Tiger at the Bar, p. 323.

19. Pittsburgh Press, 9 Iune 1934.

20. Ibid.

21. Philadelphia Independent, 4 November 1934; Andrew Buni, Robert L. Vann
of the Pittsburgh Courier (Pittsburgh, 1974), p. 216.

22. Harris, Tiger at the Bar, p. 324-25.

23. Ibid., p. 326.

24. Keller, Little New Deal, p. 154. Italians in Philadelphia, Keller reported, shifted
from 22.6 percent Democratic in 1930 to 52.2 percent in 1934.

25. Pittsburgh Press, 2 October 1934.

26. The Pennsylvania Manual, ”Election Statistics,” no. 81, 1933, pp. 422-24.

27. Pittsburgh Press, 2 October 1934.

28. Diaries of David L. Lawrence, 1936, 1940, in possession of the author, gener-
ously supplied by the Lawrence family.

29. Harris, Tiger at the Bar, p. 329. Margiotti was offered the position following
a 16 November victory celebration at Pittsburgh's William Penn Hotel. His acceptance
was announced on 23 November.

30. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 9 December 1934.

31. Interview with Al Tronzo by Dodie Carpenter, 19 August 1974, p. 4.

32. Ibid.

l> Exercising Power

1. Interview with John P. Robin, 26 March 1983, pp. 8-9; interview with Al
Tronzo by Dodie Carpenter, 19 August 1974, pp. 2-3, AIS; Pittsburgh Press, 7 Novem-

ber 1945, p. 11.

Notes to Pages 107-24 l> 407

2. ”Employment in Pennsylvania,” Monthly Labor Review 40 (December 1934):
876.

3. Richard Keller, Pennsylvan1'a’s Little New Deal (New York, 1982), p. 190. See
also David Brody, Steelworkers in America: The Non-Union Era (Cambridge, Mass.,
1960); Iohn Bodnar, Roger Simon, and Michael Weber, Lives of Their Own: Blacks,
Italians and Poles in Pittsburgh, 1900-1960 (Urbana, Ill., 1982).

4. Interview with Walter Giesey by Nancy Mason, 12 December 1972, AIS.

5. Ibid.; interview with Walter Giesey by Thomas Donaghy, 19 September 197 5.
The wording was quoted identically in the two interviews.

6. Interview with David L. Lawrence by Stefan Lorant, 14 December 1963.

7. Interview with Iames Tate by Thomas Donaghy, 19 Iuly 1973, p. 4.

8. Pittsburgh Press, 20 November 1934; Papers of George H. Earle, Speech and
News File 67, Pennsylvania State Archives, Harrisburg.

9. Pittsburgh Press, 20 March 1935.

10. Ibid., I March 1935; Keller, Little New Deal, p. 167, esp. chap. 6.

11. Interview with A1 Tronzo, 21 February I984; Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, 3 May
1935-

12. Legislative Iournal: House, vol. 18, May 1935, p. 2988 EE.,- Legislative Iournal:
Senate, vol. 18, May 1935, p. 2988ff.

13. Keller, Little New Deal, p. 173Ff.

14. Address by Governor Earle to the General Assembly of the State of Pennsyl-
Vania, 28 Ianuary 1935, Earle Papers, Speech and News File, 67; Legislative Ioumal: House,
vol. 18, 1935, p. 221. The program was taken directly from the Democratic platform of
1934-

15. Pittsburgh Press, 2, 9, 28 September, 31 October 1934.

16. Ibid., 13 July 1934.

17. Ibid., 11, 12, Ianuary, 2 February 1935.

18. Ibid., 3 February 1935.

19. Ibid., 5 March 1935; Legislative Iournal: House, vol. 19, 6 March 1935, p. 892 ff.

20. Pittsburgh Press, 4, 19, 20 June 1935; Senate Subcommittee Hearings, 23 Oc-
tober 193 5, reported in the Pittsburgh Press, 24 October 193 5. The cabinet officers were,
in addition to Lawrence, Harry Kalodner, secretary of revenue, Charles I. Margiotti,
attorney general, Arthur Colegrove, secretary of property and supplies; and Ralph Ba-
shore, secretary of forests and waters. Lawrence's influence is obvious when it is noted
that only he resided in the Pittsburgh area.

21. Pittsburgh Press, 24 October 1935.

22. Philadelphia Inquirer, 27 September 1936.

23. Interview with Father Woody Iones by Thomas Donaghy, 13 August 1974, p. 2.

24. Pennsylvania Manual, ”Election Statistics,” no. 83, 1937, p. 195.

25. Evening Public Ledger (Philadelphia), 4 November 1936.

26. Legislative Iournal: House, vol. 21, 5 Ianuary 1937, p. 45.

27. Keller, Little New Deal, p. 236,- Pittsburgh Press, 7 June 1937.

28. Keller, Little New Deal, pp. 270-71; Legislative Iournal: House, vol. 21, 5Ianu-
ary 1937-7 June 1937; Legislative Iournal: Senate, vol. 21, 5 Ianuary 1937-12 Iune 1937,-
Bruce Bliven, Ir., ”Pennsylvania Under Earle,” The New Republic, 18 August 1937, p. 39,
Pittsburgh Press, 27 March 1946.

29. Legislative Iournals House, vol. 21, 5 Ianuary 1937-7 lune 1937; Legislative [our-
nal: Senate, vol. 21, 5 Ianuary 1937-12 lune 1937.

30. Ibid.

31. Pittsburgh Press, 7 Iune I937.

32. Interview with David L. Lawrence by Sally Shames, 21 January 19 5 5, unpaginated.

408 <1 Notes to Pages 124—35

33. Keller, Little New Deal, p. 287.

34. Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, I7, 27 October, 15, 21 November,
3 December 1935, 23 April, 14 May 1936.

35. Bruce Stave, The New Deal and the Last Hurrah (Pittsburgh, 1970), p. 135,-
William McNair, ”The Waste of the People's Money,” Saturday Evening Post, 27 No-
vember 1935, p. 70.

36. Bulletin Index (Pittsburgh), 26 December 1935.

37. Lawrence to Marvin McIntyre, 6 October 1936, Democratic National Com-
mittee, Pennsylvania File 3oo, FDR Library.

l> The Empire Crumbles

1. Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, I6 Ianuary 1938.

2. It is unclear whether Lewis intended to use Pennsylvania as a springboard
to the presidency as some newspapers suggested. His differences with Roosevelt in-
volved fundamental policy issues, but neither of Lewis's major biographers believe
that he seriously considered the idea. Saul Alinsky, Iohn L. Lewis: An Unauthorized
Biography (New York, 1949), p. 161 ff; Melvyn Dubofsky and Warren Van Tine, [ohn L.
Lewis: A Biography (New York, 1977), pp. 314, 323-34.

3. Pittsburgh Press, 12 February 1938.

4. Ibid.; Commonwealth of Pennsylvania vs. David L. Lawrence in the Court
of Quarter Sessions of Dauphin County, Pa., testimony of Frank Taylor, Chief Clerk,

Democratic State Committee, 26 February I940, vol. 4, p. I787; United Mine Workers’

Iournal, 13 February 1938.

5. Guy V. Miller, ”Pennsy1vania’s Scrambled Politics, The Nation, 14 May 1938,
p. 555, Richard Keller, Pennsylvania's Little New Deal (New York, 1982), p. 296.

6. In his autobiography, Seventy Years on the Red Fire Wagon: From Tilden to
Truman Through New Freedom and New Deal (Privately printed, 19 52), p. 104, Gufiey
contends that he was urged to armounce his candidacy, but an analysis of the state-
ments of the fifteen top state leaders shows virtually no support for him.

7. Pittsburgh Press, I7 February 1938.

8. Interview with Genevieve Blatt, 22 Iune 1981, p. I7; Gufley, Seventy Years, p. 103.

9. Interview with James Law, 8 Iune 1981, p. 14.

IO. Gufley, Seventy Years, p. Io7. In his later reminisences Guffey denied that
any such clash occurred or that he wished to become a candidate himself. All avail-
able evidence, however, suggests that the Lawrence-Guffey split came into the open
at that meeting.

II. T ypescript statement of dispatch by Gould Lincoln, staff correspondent for
the Harrisburg Evening Star, 28 February 1938, Guffey archives, Washington and ]eFfer-
son College.

12. Pittsburgh Press, 13 April 1938, 5 December 1939.

13. Ibid.,- interview with Law, p. 3; Could Lincoln statement.

I4. Transcript of Margiotti radio address, 16 February 1938, Gufiey Archives.

15. Pittsburgh Press, 5 December 1939.

16. Ibid., 19, 21 April I938; Keller, Little New Deal, p. 313.

I7. Margiotti clipping file, Pennsylvania Department, Carnegie Library, Pittsburgh;
Pittsburgh Press, 26 April 1938.

18. Chester Harris, Tiger at the Bar: The Life Story of Charles I. Margiotti (New
York, 1956), p. 373.

19. For a complete transcript of the Earle-Margiotti exchange see the Pittsburgh
Press, 28 April 1938.

Notes to Pages 135-48 l> 409

20. Grand Iury Presentment by Carl B. Shelley, District Attorney, Dauphin County,
29 April 1938. Dauphin County Court House.

21. Pittsburgh Press, 26 April 1938.

22. Pennsylvania Manual, ”Election Statistics,” no. 85, 1939, pp. 147-48; Miller,
”Pennsylvania’s Scrambled Politics,” p. 555.

23. Pittsburgh Press, 22 May 1938.

24. Shelley amendment to the district attomey’s petition, filed before the Supreme
Court of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, 9 Iune 1938, in Dauphin County Grand Iury In-
vestigation Proceedings, 1938 (no. 1) 332, p. 289, (no. 2) 332, p. 342 (no. 3) 332, p. 358.

25. Interview with David L. Lawrence in Sally Shames, ”David Lawrence, Mayor
of Pittsburgh: Development of a Political Leader” (Ph.D. diss., University of Pittsburgh,
1958), p. 30H.

26. ”Complete Text of Governor Earle’s Speech on Graft Inquiry,” Pittsburgh Press,
13 Iune I938.

27. Interview with Carl B. Shelley in Keller, Little New Deal, pp. 331-32; inter-
view with David L. Lawrence, 2o May I958; interview with Law, p. 9; Paul Beers, Penn-
sylvania Politics: Today and Yesterday (University Park, Pa., 1980), p. 131.

28. Earle Address to the General Assembly, Legislative Iournal: Senate, vol. 22,
25 Iuly 1938, p. 2.

29. Named to the house commission were organization Democrats Herbert Cohen,
Edgar Schope, Anthony Girard, Robert Bierly, and Ioseph Orrnansky, and Republicans
Elwood Turner and David Perry.

30. Report of the Special Commission of the House of Representatives Investigat-
ing the Oflicial Conduct of Civil Oi-Hcers of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania under
Regulations of the HR Passed Iuly 30, 1938, in Legislative lournals Extraordinary ses-
sion, vol. 23, 3o Iuly 1938, p. 947ff.

31. Harrisburg Patriot, 2 September 1938; Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, and Harrisburg
newspapers, 4 October—4 November 1938.

32. Pittsburgh Press, 8, 23 October 1938.

33. Pennsylvania Manual, ”Votes for the U.S. Senator, Governor, General Elec-
tionrfl 110' 85/ I939!  

34. Keller, Little New Deal, p. 365.

35. Pittsburgh Press, 9 November 1938.

36. Interview with Fred Weir, 24 Iune I981; Pittsburgh Press, 9 November 1938.

37. Report of the Special Commission, p. 947 ; Pittsburgh Press, 9 November 1938;
interview with Tronzo, p. 24.

38. Report of the Special Commission, p. 959.

39. Ibid., p. 96oPf.

l> Years of Trauma

I. Dauphin County Grand Iury Investigation Proceedings (no. 2), Pennsylvania
State Reports, Dauphin County Court House, 1938-39, p. 34off.

2. Pittsburgh Press, 7 June 1937, 22 November 1939.

3. Dauphin County Grand Iury Investigation, p. 342.

4. Commonwealth of Pennsylvania vs. David L. Lawrence in the Court of Quar-
ter Sessions of Dauphin County, Pa., no. 5oI—o2, Sept. Session, 1939, opening argument
of district attorney Earl V. Compton, vol. I, p. Io5 H.

5. Ibid.

6. Ibid., testimony of Arthur Colegrove, vol. I, p. I27ff.

7. Ibid.

410 <1 Notes to Pages 149-62

8. Ibid.
9. Ibid., testimony of A. Spurgeon Bowser, vol. 2, p. 688 IT, 722.

10. Ibid., p. 773.

11. Ibid.

12. Ibid., testimony of Alice E. Priddy, Bertha McCleese, and Gertrude McAnulty,
vol. 4, p. 1242 H; testimony of Alyce E. Lawrence, p. 2285 ff; testimony of Mr. and Mrs.
I. Patton, vol. 4, p. 2577.

13. Ibid., testimony of David L. Lawrence, vol. 4, p. 2054fi.

14. Ibid., charge of Iudge Charles Hughes to the jury, vol. 5, p. 2330; Pittsburgh
Post-Gazette, 8 December 1939.

15. Valley Independent, 9 December 1939; Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 8 December
1939-

16. Interview with Judge William Rahauser, 12 Iune 1981, pp. 6-7.

17. Telephone interview with Arma Mae Donahoe, 10 January 1985.

18. Pittsburgh Press, 3 February 1940.

19. Commonwealth of Pennsylvania vs. David L. Lawrence et al. in the court of
Quarter Sessions of Dauphin County, Pa., no. 201, Iune Session, 1939, testimony of
David L. Lawrence and Frank Taylor, Chief Clerk, Democratic State Committee, 26 Feb-
ruary 1940, vol. 4, p. 1787H.

20. Ibid., testimony of I. R. Copenhaver, vol. 2, p. 802 ff.

21. Ibid., testimony of C. I. Margiotti, vol. 2, p. 864fl.

22. Ibid.

23. Ibid., testimony of Ralph Bashore; letters entered into the record by Iames
Compton, Schuylkill County Democratic Treasurer; testimony of Frank Taylor, tes-
timony of David L. Lawrence; letter of Mr. Dereume, Iefierson County Chairman,
p. 12321}.

24. Ibid., testimony of David L. Lawrence, p. 1787ff.

25. Ibid.

26. Ibid.

27. Ibid., charge to the jury by Iudge Charles Hughes, vol. 3, p. 2030.

28. Interview with Andrew Fenrich, 15 May 1981, p. 7.

29. Interview with Gerald Lawrence by Thomas Donaghy, 18 September 1974,
p. 13,- interview with Gerald Lawrence by Weber, 23 October 1982, p. 30; interview with
Walter Giesey by Thomas Donaghy, 19 September 1975, p. 31.

30. Interview with Giesey by Donaghy, p. 31.

31. Interview with Frank Ambrose, 11 Iuly 1984, p. 10,- Chester Harris, Tiger at the
Bar: The Life Story of Charles I. Margiotti (New York, 1956), p. 452.

32. Pittsburgh Press, 13 April 1940; Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 13, 14 April 1940.

33. New York Times, 4 April 1940; Pittsburgh Press, 25 April 1940.

34. Philadelphia Record, 25 April 1940.

35. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 21 Iune 1940.

36. Interview with Ioe Barr by Thomas Donaghy, August 1974, p. 8 ; interview with
Barr by Weber, 13 February 1981. Barr's recollections of every detail of this event were
identical at the time of the two interviews.

37. Interview with lack Clinton, 8 Iune 1983. Clinton, one of the rear seat pas-
sengers in the Lawrence automobile remained in the hospital several months after the
accident.

38. Interview with Ambrose, p. 7. Ambrose related the identical incident to
Donaghy in an interview ten years earlier. See also Iohn Bowlby, Loss, Sadness and
Depression, vol. 3 of Attachment and Loss (New York, 1980); G. Gorer, Death, Grief

I

Notes to Pages 162-75 l> 411

and Mourning in Contemporary Britain (London, I965); and Colin Murray Parkes, Be-
reavement: Studies of Grief in Adult Life (London, 1972).

39. Interview with David Donahoe, 2o Iune 1983, p. 6H.

40. Interview with Rita Wilson Kane, 27 April 1983, p. 5; interview with Gene-
vieve Blatt, 22 Iune 1981, p. 7.

41. Interview with Aima Mae Donahoe, 9 February I981, p. 7,- interview with Ger-
ald Lawrence by Weber, p. I6; Pittsburgh Press, 3 September 1958.

42. Interview with Gerald Lawrence by Thomas Donaghy, 8 August 1974, p. 5,-
interview with David Donahoe, pp. 3-4.

[> Policies, Principles, and Procedures

1. Iohn Kottler and Paul Lawrence, Mayors in Action: Five Approaches to Ur-
ban Government (New York, 1974), p. 18 ff, 29. For the best analysis of the ”muddling
through” mayor, see David Baybrooke and Charles E. Lindbloom, A Strategy of Deci-
sion (New York, 1963).

2. Interview with John P. Robin, 26 March 1983, p. 42; interview with Walter
Giesey by Nancy Mason, 20 December 1972, unpaginated, AIS ; interview with Rosemary
Plessett, 14 April 1983, p. 13.

3. Interview with David Donahoe, 25 June 1983, p. 3.

4. Interview with Msgr. Charles Owen Rice, 17 August 1982, p. 2; Pittsburgh Sun-
Telegraph, 6 September I950; Pittsburgh Press, 9 Iuly 1946. Lawrence characterized
Churchill's views as typical of ”Tories who have held subject peoples in chains.”

5. Interview with Genevieve Blatt, 22 June 1981, pp. 1—3; interview with Blatt by
Thomas Donaghy, 25 September 1974, p. 2,» interview with Rita Wilson Kane, 23 Oc-
tober 1982, p. 3.

6. Interview with Robin, p. 7.

7. Interview with Blatt, p. I6; interview with Giesey, 23 October 1982, p. I8; inter-
view with Aldo Colautti, 23 Iune 1983, p. 7; interview with Arma Mae Donahoe, 19
February 1981, p. 7; ms. on David L. Lawrence by Thomas Donaghy, chap. 15, p. 16.

8. Interview with Walter Giesey by Thomas Donaghy, 19 September 197 5, p. 15.

9. Pittsburgh Press, 17 January 194 5 ; interview with Andrew Bradley by Thomas
Donaghy, I August 1974, p. 13.

10. Interview with Rosemary Plessett by Thomas Donaghy, 24 June 1975, p. I; in-
terview with Blatt by Donaghy, p. 6.

11. Speech of 4 December 196 5, Lawrence Papers, Pennsylvania State Archives,
Harrisburg.

12. Interview with David Lawrence by Stefan Lorant, 4 December 1963, p. 10; in-
terview with Robin, p. 23; interview with Giesey, p. 13,- interview with Colautti, p. 17.
13. Interview with Blatt, p. II; interview with Giesey by Donaghy, p. 15.

14. Interview with Gerald Lawrence, I7 August 1982, p. 8.

15. Ibid.; interview with Dan Cercone, 14 July 1983; interview with Blatt, p. 5.

16. Information on Lawrence's ability to interact with the citizens of Pittsburgh
may be found throughout the nearly IOO interviews conducted for this study. Those
with Adolph Schmidt, Andrew Fenrich, Frank Ambrose, Al Conway, and Walter Gie-
sey, all previously cited, and Henry Hillman, 31 May 1984, were particularly valuable.
Michener quotation is from Paul Beers, Pennsylvania Politics: Today and Yesterday
(University Park, Pa., 1980), p. 241.

I7. Interview with Giesey by Thomas Donaghy, p. 20,- interview with Andrew
Fenrich, 15 May 1981, p. 4ff.

Growing Up [> 21

could not find people willing to serve as ward registrar. Shortly there-
after, Lawrence supported a commission ruling permitting ward chair-
men to serve simultaneously as registrars in their own wards. The
funds they received for assisting in voter registration would presum-
ably proved financial incentive to reluctant Democratic party work-
ers. His strongest influence in the commission during the following
years was in preventing repeal of the ward chairman ruling.4° He also
waged a mild fight against annual registration, which he correctly
viewed as benefiting the large, well-organized Republican operation.
Later, as secretary of the Commonwealth, he was instrumental in
the enactment of permanent registration.

By 1917 Lawrence was ready to launch his own political career.
At Brennen’s suggestion, he formed the David Leo Lawrence Politi-
cal Club and by the summer of that year had nearly fifty followers.
The group met monthly to discuss political issues and candidates,
and it campaigned in the fall election for Billy Brennen for city coun-
cil. As usual the mayoralty—for which the Democrats did not run
a candidate —and all five available council seats were won by Repub-
licans. Brennen ran a ”respectable” seventh.

Lawrence's fledgling organization had barely a chance to get its
political feet wet when its activities were interrupted by World War
I. Initially turned down for active duty because of his eyes, he enlisted
on 17 September 1918 and served in the adjutant general’s office for
just over a year. Military service in Washington, D.C., in spite of a
promotion to second lieutenant, did not prove satisfying, and years
later he refused to wear his American Legion pin, reasoning that his
efforts did not aid in ending the war.“ At war’s, end Lawrence, aged
twenty-nine, returned to Pittsburgh to begin the adult phase of his
career in politics.

412 <1 Notes to Pages 176-96

18. Interview with Robin, p. 40.

19. Interview with Colautti, p. 6.

20. Interview with Giesey by Donaghy, p. 16; interview with Rosemary Plessett,

14 April 1983, p. 14.

21. Interview with Arthur Rooney, 25 February 1981, p. 14.

22. Interview with William Block, 3 March 1984, p. 8.

23. Interview with Gerald Lawrence, p. 16; interview with Plesset, p. 9.

24. Interview with Iohn Iones, 19 February 1981, p. 15.

l> The Interlude

1. Interview with Iames Law, 8 Iune 1981, p. 13; interview with Al T ronzo, 2 Feb-
ruary 1984, p. 22; interview with Fred Weir, 24 Iune 1981; Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 18
November 1940.

2. Pennsylvania Manual, ”Electi0n Statistics,” no. 85, 1941 p. 149 ff. In Pennsyl-
vania, Roosevelt recorded 2,169,000 votes to Willkie’s 1,889,000. In Allegheny County
his margin was slightly in excess of 100,000. During the summer of 1940 Roosevelt
showed his concern over the Pennsylvania outcome by hosting several harmony meet-
ings between Lawrence and Gufiey.

3. Pittsburgh Press, 20 May 1942, 23 October 1941.

4. Pennsylvania Manual, ”Electi0n Statistics,” no. 96, 1943, p. 150ff.

5. Interview with Genevieve Blatt, 19 June 1984, p. 18.

6. Interview with David L. Lawrence by Ierry N. Hess, 30 Iune 1966, pp. 14, 15,
HST Library, Pittsburgh Press, 19 June 1940.

7. Interview with Lawrence by Hess, pp. 2, 4, 10, 12.

8. Ibid., p. 6.

9. Pittsburgh Press, 18-21 August 1944.

10. Ibid., 21 August 1944.

11. Interview with Lawrence by Hess, p. 7; interview with Blatt, p. 1.

12. Interview with Blatt, p. 2.

13. Interview with Lawrence by Hess, p. 7; interview with Blatt, p. 2.

14. Interview with Lawrence by Hess, pp. 8, 9.

15. The Roosevelt majorities were as follows: Pennsylvania, 59,000; Philadelphia,

132,000; Allegheny County, 76,000; Pittsburgh, 55,000.

16. Interview with Iohn P. Robin, 26 March 1983, pp. 2-4.

17. Pittsburgh Press, 12 October 1937.

18. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 7 November 1941.

19. Interview with Tronzo, p. 16.

20. Interview with Robin, p. 17.

21. Pittsburgh Press, 25 March 1945.

22. Ibid., 23 March 1945.

23. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 1 April 1945.

24. Interview with Rita Wilson Kane, 27 April 1983, p. 5.

25. Interview with Robin by Robert Pease, 20 September 1972, unpaginated, AIS,-

interview with Robin, p. 18.

26. Interview with Robin by Pease.

27. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 20 April 1945.

28. Ibid.

29. Pittsburgh Press, 10 Iune 1945; Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 15 Iune 1945; script of

Notes to Pages 196-204 [> 413

KDKA radio address, 15 lune 1945, Lawrence clipping file, Pennsylvania Department,
Carnegie Library, Pittsburgh.
30. Pittsburgh Press, 20 Iune 194 5. Lawrence received 50,303 votes; Huston, 22,690.

l> A City in Trouble

1. For a detailed account of the economic state of the city in 1900, see Iohn Bod-
nar, Roger Simon, and Michael Weber, Lives of their Own: Blacks, Italians and Poles
in Pittsburgh, 1900-1960 (Urbana, 1982), p. 13 ff; David Brody, Steelworkers in America:
The Non-Union Era (Cambridge, Mass., 1960); Paul U. Kellogg, ed., The Pittsburgh Sur-
vey (New York, 1910). The six-volume work edited by Kellogg presents comprehensive
evidence on numerous aspects of work and life in Pittsburgh.

2. Glenn E. McLaughlin and Ralph Watkins, ”The Problems of Industrial Growth
in a Mature Economy,” American Economic Review 29 (March 1939); pt. 2, p. 8H.

3. Robert Schauffler, Romantic America (New York, 1913), p. 71. The phrase ”Hell
with the lid taken off,” First used by Iames Parton in the Atlantic Monthly, 21 Ianu-
ary 1868, is frequently and incorrectly credited to Charles Dickens or other visiting
luminaries.

4. Econometric Institute, The Long Range Outlook for the Pittsburgh Indus-
trial Area (New York, 1946), p. 101. The institute’s overall findings were so pessimistic
that the sponsoring agencies suppressed the report.

5. Iearme R. Lowe, ”Rebuilding Cities—and Politics,” The Nation, Ianuary I9 58,
p. 118.

6. ”Pittsburgh’s New Powers,” Fortune, February 1947, p. 77 ff.

7. Urban Redevelopment Authority, Gateway Center Project Survey, 1947, Penn-
sylvania Department, Carnegie Library, Pittsburgh.

8. Minute Book, Pittsburgh City Council, vol. 80, 15 August 1946.

9. Pittsburgh Housing Authority, unpublished report, 1937, Housing Authority
files; Scott Nearing, Black America (n.p., 1929); Bodnar et al., Lives of Their Own,
chap. 7,- Econometric Institute, Long Range Outlook, p. 3.

10. Philip Klein, A Social Study of Pittsburgh: Community Problems and Social
Services of Allegheny County (New York, 1938), p. 203.

11. National Climatic Center, ”Climatological Data, Pennsylvania, 1936" (Ashe-
ville, North Carolina I937); ”Our Flood in Pictures,” Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, 2 April
1936. For a detailed analysis of flood control in Pittsburgh see Roland M. Smith, ”The
Politics of Pittsburgh Flood Control, 1908-1936,” Pennsylvania History 42 (Ianuary 1975),
and ”The Politics of Pittsburgh Flood Control, 1936-1960,” Pennsylvania History 44
(Ianuary 1977).

12. Smith, ’’Flood Control, 1936—1960,” p. 7.

13. William Denny, address to the Pittsburgh Chamber of Commerce, 1874, printed
copy in possession of the author.

14. Ioel A. Tarr and Bill C. Lamperes, ”Changing Fuel Use Behavior and Energy
Transitions: The Pittsburgh Smoke Control Movement, 194o—195o,” Iournal of Social
History 14 (Summer 1981): 562.

15. Pittsburgh Press, 28 Ianuary 1941.

16. Ibid., 27-31]anuary 1941; Econometric Institute, Long Range Outlook, pp. 97, 98.

17. For a detailed explanation of the development of the smoke control ordinance
and its implementation, see Tarr and Lamperes, ”Changing Fuel Use Behavior.”

18. Theodore Hazlett, ]r., ”The Changing Attitude in Pittsburgh,” address to Fu-

414 <1 Notes to Pages 204-17

ture Springfield Inc., Springfield, Mass., I June 1953, ACCD archives; Burton Hersh,
The Mellon Family: A Fortune in History (New York, 1978), p. 3 59; Adolph W. Schmidt,
”The Pittsburgh Story,” address to the International Press Institute at the University
of Pittsburgh, 19 April 19 58, n.p.,- Pittsburgh Chamber of Commerce, ”Company Reloca-
tion Prospects,” October 1945.

19. Samuel P. Hays, The Politics of Reform in Municipal Government in the Pro-
gressive Era,” Pacific Northwestern Quarterly 55 (October 1964): I62.

20. For a detailed analysis of the public and private reform elements in Pittsburgh,
see Roy Lubove, Twentieth Century Pittsburgh: Government, Business, and Environ-
mental Change (New York, 1969). The 1922-23 plans of the CCCP included recommen-
dations on playgrounds, street patterns, public transit, parks, railroads, and waterways.

21. Interview with Adolph Schmidt by Nancy Mason, 9 October 1972, p. 4.

22. Interview with David L. Lawrence by Stefan Lorant, 14 December 1963, p. 7.

l> From Political Boss to Civic Statesman

I. Pittsburgh Press, 15 September, 3 November 1937. Magee was elected to the
city council under both party banners in 1933.

2. Luncheon Address, American Legion Post 59, Pittsburgh, Pa., in Pittsburgh
Post-Gazette, Lawrence clipping file, Pennsylvania Department, Carnegie Library,
Pittsburgh.

3. Pittsburgh Press, 25 September 1945. See all Pittsburgh newspapers, 24 Sep-
tember—7 November 1945.

4. Waddell to the Pittsburgh Chamber of Commerce, Pittsburgh Press, 29 Sep-
tember, 17 May, 3 November 1945.

5. John Huston, letter to the ”People of Pittsburgh,” printed in all three Pitts-
burgh newspapers, 24 September 1945.

6. Pittsburgh Press, 14 October 1945. The invitation to Shelley was sent by Mrs.
Nellie Dressler, vice-chairrnan of the Republican County Committee, on behalf of the
Federation of Councils of Republican Women, the Republican League of Allegheny
County, the Republican Luncheon Club, and the Independent Women's Group.

7. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 27 October I945; Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, 26 Octo-
ber 1945, Pittsburgh Press, 26 October, 4 November 1945.

8. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 7 November 1945.

9. Election returns, I941, I945, Allegheny County Bureau of Elections, County
Office Building, Pittsburgh.

‘Io. Pittsburgh Press, 9 November 1945.

II. Ibid.

12. Ibid., 6 Ianuary I946; interview with Iohn Iones, 18 February 1981.

13. Pittsburgh Post—Gazette, Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, IO ]anu-
ary 1946.

I4. Frank Hawkins, ”Mediation Becomes a Major Duty of Pittsburgh Mayor,” Pitts-
burgh Post-Gazette, 10 December 1947.

I 5. Inaugural address of David L. Lawrence, 7 Ianuary 1946, Lawrence file, ACCD.

I6. Lawrence's cabinet was sworn in the following morning. It included three
holdovers from the Scully administration: Dr. I. Hope Alexander, director of public
health; Anne X. Alpem, city solicitor; and George A. Fairley, director of public safety.
New members included: Iimmy Kirk, city treasurer; Iames S. Devlin, public works
director; William Driscoll, director of the department of supplies (Driscoll, a former
district collector of internal revenue, had been a casualty of the Lawrence-Guffey feud),

Notes to Pages 217-35 [> 415

and Homer Greene, director of lands and buildings. Also sworn in was the city's first
black magistrate, Robert E. Williams, Fifth Ward constable and political leader.

17. C. W. Dressler, ”Mayor Lays Down Law on Garbage,” Pittsburgh Post-Gazette,
9 Ianuary 1946.

18. Pittsburgh Press, 9, 1o, 15, 16, 25 January 1946; Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 9, 11,
13, 15, 16, 27 Ianuary, 3, 6 February, 1946.

19. Interview with Monsignor Charles Owen Rice, 17 Iuly 1982, p. 7.

20. Pittsburgh Press, 11 February 1946. The number of homes affected was rela-
tively small because a high proportion were heated with coal. This became an impor-
tant part of the ammunition later used by those opposing residential smoke control.

21. Pittsburgh Post—Gazette, 12 February 1946.

22. Ibid.

23. Pittsburgh Sun—Telegraph, 12 October 1946.

24. Ibid., 13 October 1946.

25. Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, Pittsburgh Post—Gazette, 13 Feb-
ruary 1946.

26. Interview with Walter Giesey, 23 October 1982, p. 1o.

27. Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, 21, 22, 24 February 1946; Pittsburgh Press, 21-25
February 1946.

28. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 26 February 1946; Pittsburgh Sun—Telegraph, 14 April
1946.

29. Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, Pittsburgh Press, 26 February 1946.

30. Pittsburgh Press, 22 March 1946.

31. Pittsburgh Post Gazette, 6 August 1946.

32. Fortune, February 1947, pp. 69-70.

33. Pittsburgh Sun—Telegraph, 27 September 1946, interview with Rice, p. 8.

34. Interview with Gerald Lawrence, 17 August 1982, p. 28.

35. Lawrence Clipping File, Pennsylvania Department, Carnegie Library, Pitts-
burgh, 17 October 1946.

36. Newsweek, 9 December 1946, p. 25.

l> Creating a Renaissance: The Environment

1. See, e.g., George Perry, ”The Cities of America: Pittsburgh,” Saturday Eve-
ning Post, 3 August 1946; ”Pittsburgh’s New Powers,” Fortune, February 1947, ”Cities:
Pittsburgh Comes Out of the Smog,” Newsweek, 26 September 1949, ”Pittsburgh Re-
nascent,” Architectural Forum, November 1949, Karl Schriftsgiesser, ”The Pittsburgh
Story,” Atlantic Monthly, May 1951; Herbert Kubly, ”Pittsburgh: The City that Quick-
changed from Unbelievable Ugliness to Shining Beauty in Less Than Half a Genera-
tion,” Holiday, March 1959.

2. Iohn Iones, ”So You Want to Be a Mayor?” Pittsburgh Post—Gazette, 28 March
1947; Mayor's Appointment Book, 27 March 1947, Pennsylvania Archives, Harrisburg.

3. Interview with Iohn P. Robin, 26 March 1983, p. 42; interview with Walter
Giesey by Nancy Mason, 20 December 1972, AIS.

. Interview with Robin, p. 31.

. Interview with Giesey by Mason.

. Interview with Fred Weir, 24 June 1981, p. 6.

. Interview with Theodore Hazlett by Ioel Tarr, 22 November 1971, p. IO, AIS.
. Interview with Park Martin by Stefan Lorant, 14 June 1955, p. 31.

. Interview with Park Martin by Ioel Tarr, 17 November 1971, p. 6, AIS.

\O OO\I Oxvu-P

416 <1 Notes to Pages 236-46

10. Burton Hersh, The Mellon Family: A Fortune in History (New York, 1978),
pp. 173, 363. David Koskoff, The Mellons: The Chronicle of America ’s Richest Family
(New York, 1978), p. 447 ff, generally agrees with Hersh’s characterization of Richard K.
Mellon although suggesting that he was reared by his father Richard Beatty to take
over the business holdings of his family. ”There was never a touch of rebellion in R. K.,
never a hint of the intellectual. . . . R. K. was a conventional man, luxury model.”

11. Hersh, Mellon Family, p. 171,- interview with Arthur Van Buskirk by I. Cutler
Andrews, 28 October 1971, AIS.

12. Interview with Adolph Schmidt, 14 Iuly 1984, p. 14.

13. Interview with Park Martin by Stefan Lorant, 14 Iune 195 5, p. 20; speech files
of Park Martin, Ted Hazlett, Leland Hazard, ACCD.

14. File on meeting with the secretary of the treasury, ACCD; interview with
Van Buskirk by Andrews, p. 12.

15. For a detailed account of the progress of the flood control projects see Roland
Smith, ”Pittsburgh Flood Control, 1936-60,” Pennsylvania History 44 (january 1977): 3 fl.

16. Pittsburgh Press, 4 April, 28 Iune 1947, 26 Iuly 1948.

17. The system was not completed until summer 196 5 when the Allegheny River
Reservoir at Kinzua, 150 miles above Pittsburgh, was dedicated.

18. Other bills in the Pittsburgh Package included expansion of county plarming
commission jurisdiction over suburban subdivisions, transfer to the state of respon-
sibility for maintenance of city bridges ; and an amendment to the Public Utility Act
permitting the county to file and appear before the Public Utilities Commission even
though the county might not be the first party at interest. All but the last two be-
came law.

19. Interview with David L. Lawrence by Stefan Lorant, 14 December 1963, p. 14.
Lawrence's version of the meeting was corroborated by interviews with Walker, Mar-
tin, Hazlett, and Robin.

20. Pittsburgh Press, 22 February 1947.

21. The league specifically opposed the bills regarding county-wide smoke con-
trol, refuse disposal plants, suburban subdivision development, and additional taxing
powers for Pittsburgh.

22. Interview with Hazlett by Tarr, p. 3; interview with Martin by Lorant, pp. 11,
12,- lecture by Theodore Hazlett, Seminar on the Pittsburgh Renaissance, University
of Pittsburgh, 27 November 1972, p. 7, AIS.

23. Hazlett lecture, p. 13.

24. Ralph E. Griswold, ”Fron Fort Pitt to Point Park,” Landscape Architecture 46
(July 19 56 j: 198. For a detailed analysis of the project see Robert C. Alberts, The Shaping
of the Point: Pittsburgh’s Renaissance Park (Pittsburgh, 1980), esp. chap. 7.

25. Inaugural Address of Mayor David L. Lawrence, 7 Ianuary 1946, ACCD. Cam-
paign advertisements appeared in the Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 15
October—7 November 194 5. See Ioel A. Tarr and Bill C. Lamperes, ”Changing Fuel Use
Behavior and Energy Transitions: The Pittsburgh Smoke Control Movement, 1940-50,”
Journal of Social History 14 (Summer 1981), for a comprehensive analysis of the entire
smoke control issue.

26. Letters to the editor, Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, 7-18 April
1946; ACCD statement at a public hearing of the Pittsburgh City Council, 17 April
1946, ACCD; interview with Martin by Lorant, p. 10H.

27. Smoke Ordinance Hearings, Pittsburgh City Council, 17, 18 April 1946, Min-
ute Books, Pittsburgh City Council, City-County Building, Pittsburgh.

28. Ibid.

Notes to Pages 247-58 l> 417

29. Pittsburgh Press, letters to the editor, 5—Io February 1948.

30. Tarr and Lamperes, ”Changing Fuel Use Behavior,” p. 575.

31. Ibid., p. 575,- Sally Shames, ”David L. Lawrence, Mayor of Pittsburgh,” (Ph.D.
diss., Pittsburgh, 1958), p. 245.

32. Interview with Iohn P. Robin by Robert Pease, 20 September 1972. In the midst
of the controversy, Martin and two others visited the president of Equitable Life to
discuss the proposed CBD project. ”Parkinson listened,” Martin reported, ”then said,
’Well, gentlemen, you'll have to answer two questions before I say anything more. What
are you doing about smoke control in Pittsburgh and what are you doing about flood
control?’” Interview with Martin by Lorant, p. 15.

33. Interview with Edward Leonard, I9 Iune 1981, p. 3.

34. Minute Book, Pittsburgh City Council, Ianuary—]une 1948; Pittsburgh Press,
4, 7 February 1948.

35. Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, 3—Io
February 1948.

36. Interview with Al Conway 2o August 1982, p. 24; interview with Leonard,
pp. 7, 8.

37. Resolution of the Central Labor Union of the American Federation of Labor,
5 May 1949, reprinted in part in the Pittsburgh Press, 6 May 1949; interview with Robin
by Pease.

38. Pittsburgh Press, 22 lune 1949.

39. Ibid., I September 1949; interview with Robin, p. 31.

40. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 2 September 1949.

41. Fuel usage for centrally and noncentrally heated dwellings calculated from
U.S. Census for Pittsburgh, 1950, by Todd Shallat, in possession of Ioel Tarr.

42. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, I8, 20, 21 October I949; interview with Leonard by
Weber, pp. 9, IO; interview with Leonard by Donaghy, p. 8.

43. Stefan Lorant, Pittsburgh: The Story of an American City (Lenox, Mass., 1964),

p. 402.

> Creating a Renaissance: Bricks and Mortar

I. Interview with Iohn P. Robin, 26 March 1983, p. 32,- Pittsburgh Press, 22 March
1946, 13 December 19 53. A second fire one month later destroyed the Pittsburgh Plated
Products Company and the Young-Wade Machine Company.

2. Interview with Park Martin by Stefan Lorant, 14 Iune 1955, p. 14.

3. Interview with Arthur Van Buskirk by I. Cutler Andrews, 28 October I971,
p. 4.

4. Interview with David L. Lawrence by Stefan Lorant, 14 December 196 3, p. 23 ff;
interview with Van Buskirk by Andrews, p. 4ff. The proper title of the organization
is the Redevelopment Authority of Pittsburgh. In common usage it has become known
as the Urban Redevelopment Authority or simply URA. For convenience and clarity,
the popular usage has been retained throughout this work.

5. Minute Book, Pittsburgh City Council, 80, no. 49, 12 November 1946, pp. 205-
06; Stefan Lorant, Pittsburgh: The Story of an American City (Lenox, Mass., 1975),
p. 424 ff; minutes of incorporation meeting of the Redevelopment Authority of Pitts-
burgh, 18 November 1946, Urban Redevelopment Authority, Iohn P. Robin Civic Build-
ing, Pittsburgh.

6. It was the Pittsburgh business community that funded the URA during its
first year. According to Robin, the Allegheny Conference representatives purchased

418 <1 Notes to Pages 258-67

$100,000 worth of URA bonds while the Duquesne Light and Power Company, several
banks, and the manufacturing interests purchased others. Robin became the full-time
paid director in 1948. Interview with John P. Robin by Robert Pease, 20 September 1972,
p. 30.

7. Pittsburgh Press, 2 May 1947; state of the city addresses, 1947-54, ACCD; speech
to the American Society of Planning Officials, 15 October 1951, ACCD.

8. David L. Lawrence to Charles Graham, Pittsburgh and West Virginia Railroad,
F. A. Christianson, Continental Insurance Co., I. F. Crafts, Fireman's Fund, I. A. Dia-
mond, Insurance Company of North America, C. S. Kremer, Hartford Fire Insurance
Company, and Ivan Escott, Home Insurance Company, 14 May 1947, ACCD; Pitts-
burgh Press, 1 March 1948.

9. Interview with Arthur Van Buskirk by I. Cutler Andrews, 28 October 1971,
p. 15,- interview with Adolph Schmidt by Weber, 14 Iuly 1984, p. II-6, interview with
Schmidt by Nancy Mason, 9 October 1972, p. 15; Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 29 Septem-
ber 1953, David L. Lawrence, speech to the Pittsburgh Press Club, 17 September 1957,
p. 3, ACCD.

10. Minute Books, Pittsburgh City Countil, January I946-—]anuary 1959.

11. The major projects included the Gateway Center redevelopment, the Iones
and Laughlin Steel Corporation expansion on the South Side, the Civic Arena and
Lower Hill redevelopment project, the Oakland hospital expansion, development of
Allegheny Center on the North Side, and the East Liberty renewal.

12. Shelby Stewman and Ioel A. T arr, ”Four Decades of Private/Public Partner-
ships in Pittsburgh,” a report prepared for the Committee on Economic Development,
July 1981, p. 19; Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 4 November 1948.

13. Interview with Van Buskirk by Andrews, p. 6.

14. Minute Book, Urban Redevelopment Authority of Pittsburgh, no. 1, 5 Octo-
ber 1948, p. 15, 13 February 1950, p. 72,- Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 14 February 1950.

15. Minute Book, Urban Redevelopment Authority of Pittsburgh, no. 1, 10 February
1950; PP- 4; 5-

16. Ibid., 21 June 1949, p. 45.

17. Interview with Theodore Hazlett by Thomas Donaghy, 31 October 1974, p. 7;
interview with Hazlett by Ioel Tarr, 22 November 1971, p. 12.

18. Committee on Hearings, Pittsburgh City Council, 10 November 1949, p. 435 H;
Sam Bass Warner, Ir., The Private City: Philadelphia in Three Periods of Its Growth
(Philadelphia, 1968). In Philadelphia, Warner convincingly demonstrated, government
operated to further the interests of private investors. What was good for the private
individual, they agreed, would also be in the best interests of the larger society. The
rape of Pittsburgh's best land by industrialists during the late nineteenth and early
twentieth century suggests that the concept also existed in the steel city.

19. Interview with Hazlett by Tarr, p. 13.

20. It is ironic to note that less than thirty years after this massive expansion,
Iones and Laughlin virtually ceased steel production in Pittsburgh. \

21. Edgar I. Kaufmarm to David L. Lawrence, 4 February 1949, Minute Book, Pitts-
burgh City Council, pp. 80-81; Lawrence to Pittsburgh City Council, 7 February 1949,
Minute Book, Pittsburgh City Council, p. 78.

22. Other sites considered included Grandview Park, Prick Park, Monument Hill,
the site of the Silver Lake Drive-in Theater on Washington Boulevard, Schenley Park's
Flagstaff Hill, and the lower Hill immediately adjacent to the central business district.
The latter two sites were ruled out ”because they are presently occupied by thickly
built areas presenting a re-housing problem.” ACCD minutes, 11 June 1949.

23. Committee on Hearings, Pittsburgh City Council, 8 July 1949, p. 391 H.

Notes to Pages 267-84 l> 419

24. Ibid.; Pittsburgh Press, 7-9 Iuly 1949. King kept his word, bequeathing his land
to the city upon his death a short time later. It is now an environmental park.
25. Pittsburgh Press, 20 Iuly 1949.
26. David L. Lawrence to Edward Weidlein, 15 August 1949, ACCD.
27. Edward Weidlein to David L. Lawrence, 15 August 1949, ACCD.
28. Pittsburgh Press, 26 March 1951.
29. ACCD Executive Committee Minutes, 16 February 1953, 22 July 1955.
30. Committee on Hearings, Pittsburgh City Council, 6 Iuly 1955, p. 418 ff.
31. ”Lower Hill Relocation,” mimeograph, URA, n.d., supplied to the author by
Al Tronzo.
32. Pittsburgh Press, 22 December 1956; Pittsburgh Building Inspector's Report,
17 Iuly 19 53 (copy supplied to the author by Al T ronzo) ; Pittsburgh Press, 16-21 December
1956.
33. Anonymous Chatham College study, ”Lower Hill Relocation,” Pittsburgh Post-
Gazette, 6 Iune 1959.
34. Interview with Robin, p. 47,- lecture by Theodore Hazlett, 27 November 1972,
pp. 27-28, A18.
35. Roy Lubove, Twentieth Century Pittsburgh: Government, Business, and En-
vironmental Change (New York, 1969), pp. 131-32.
36. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 6 February 1960.

l> Social Concerns and Other Matters

1. Iohn H. Mollenkopf, The Contested City (Princeton, N.]., 1983), p. 16.

2. ”Al1egheny Council to Improve Our Neighborhood Housing: An Action Pro-
gram for Meeting the Housing Problems of Allegheny County,” prepared for the ACCD
by the Pennsylvania Economy League, February 19 57. The private sector organizations
did not become involved in housing until 19 57 when ACTION-Housing was fonned.
This organization developed a broad program which sponsored new and rehabilitated
housing, the development of neighborhood citizen organizations, and research.

3. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 27 March 1946.

4. Interview with K. Leroy Irvis, 19 June 1984, p. 3 fl. It was K. Leroy Irvis’s leader-
ship in the fight against discrimination against blacks by the city's five department
stores which first brought him to Lawrence's attention. ”He supported us,” Irvis re-
ported, ”but he did not want us to picket against the department store owners. He
felt that it would give the city a black eye” (p. 14).

. Committee on Hearings, Pittsburgh City Council, 30 November 1946.

. Interview with Irvis, p. 6.

. Pittsburgh Press, 2 April 1949; Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, 6 September 1950.
. Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, 7 August 1950.

. Committee on Hearings, Pittsburgh City Council, Bill 1723, 19 November 19 52,

\OOo\lO\v1

p. 141.

10. Steve Nelson, Iames R. Barrett, and Rob Ruck, Steve Nelson: American Radi-
cal (Pittsburgh, 1981), p. 305. For a detailed account of the anti-Communist activities
in Pittsburgh see esp. chap. 1o.

11. Ibid. See also Sally Stephenson, ”Michael Musmanno as a Symbolic Leader”
(Doctor of Arts diss., Carnegie Mellon University, 1981).

12. Stephenson, ”Musmarmo,” p. IV-18.

13. Michael Musmanno, Across the Street from the Courthouse (Philadelphia,
1954), p. 44; Pittsburgh Press, 31 March 1950.

14. Musmanno, Across the Street, p. 384. ”From September 1948, to Iuly 1950,”

420 <l Notes to Pages 284-94

Musmarmo wrote, ”I experienced each day, as I can out of the courthouse, a sense of
frustration and almost despair. Despite the increasing concerted attempt of the whole
western world to push Communism back to its Asian frontiers, the Communist Party
in Pittsburgh had set up its headquarters right across the street from the courthouse.
Less than 100 feet from the very room in which I renewed my court sessions, the Rus-
sian agents had planted what amounted to the equivalent of an advance post of the
Russian army” (p. 53).

15. Marjorie Matson to the Pittsburgh chapter of the ACLU, quoted in Musmarmo,
Across the Street, p. 323; Charles I. Margiotti to William S. Rahauser, 5 Ianuary 1951,
copy provided to the author by Warren Matson. Among the charges against Matson
listed in the letter to Rahauser were ”the reputation among her fellow students [at
the University of Pittsburgh] of having Communistic tendencies, . . . [that] she was
one of the principal demonstrators against General MacArthur when he came to Pitts-
burgh . . . in 1932, . . . [that she] acted as counsel for Bernard Salis arrested for distribut-
ing literature without perrni .”

16. Marjorie Matson to Charles I. Margiotti in Pittsburgh Press, 5 January 1951;
Pittsburgh Press, 18 Ianuary 1951.

17. Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 7-15 September 1952.

18. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 7 September 1951; interview with Warren Matson,
31 March 1983. Lawrence did not forget McBride’s gesture and he became state attorney
general in the Lawrence administration.

19. Stephenson, ”Musmarmo,” p. VI-3.

20. Interview with Fred Weir, 24 Iune 1981, pp. 6, 7. Walter Giesey related essen-
tially the same incident. "I was almost shocked,” he said of the council's independent
action. Interview with Giesey, 23 October 1982, p. 22.

21. Minute Book, Pittsburgh City Council, 26 November 1953; Pittsburgh Post-
Gazette, 1 December 1953.

22. Pittsburgh Press, 18 December 1953.

23. Ibid., 18, 29, 23 December 19 53. Pittsburgh Mayor Richard Caliguiri was ironi-
cally attacked in the same manner and labeled ”the commuter bandit” when he at-
tempted, in 1984 and 1986, to impose a tax on all employees who worked in the city
regardless of where they lived.

24. Pittsburgh Press, 11, 12 Ianuary 1954.

25. Minute Book, Pittsburgh City Council, 25 Ianuary 19 54; Lawrence speech of
28 Ianuary 1954, Lawrence File, ACCD.

26. Pittsburgh Press, 19 March 1954.

27. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 9 Iuly 1946.

28. Interview with Alex Lowenthal, 6 August 1984, p. 7.

29. Pittsburgh Post—Gazette, 10 August 1954; interview with Lowenthal, p. 4.

30. Handwritten log of Lawrence's European trip, 24 May—5 Iuly 1958, in posses-
sion of his daughter, Anna Mae Donahoe; Harry S. Truman to William Green, 3 May
1961, Lawrence Name File, HST Library.

31. Interview with Lowenthal, p. 12, interview with Giesey, p. 24.

32. Pittsburgh Press, 17 September 1957.

[> A Bit of Tamish

1. Lincoln Stefiens, The Shame of the Cities (New York, 1966), see ”Pittsburg,
A City Ashamed,” pp. 101-33; Harold Zink, City Bosses in the United States (New York,
1968), pp. 246-56 ; Iames Forbes, ”The Reverse Side,” in Wage Earning Pittsburgh: The
Pittsburgh Survey (New York, 1907). For a detailed analysis of the attempts at reform,

Notes to Pages 294-306 [> 421

see Benjamin Hayllar, The Accommodation: The History and Rhetoric of the Rackets-
Political Alliance in Pittsburgh” (Ph.D. diss., University of Pittsburgh, 1977) ; Samuel P.
Hays, ”The Politics of Reform in Municipal Government in the Progressive Era,” Pa-
cific Northwest Quarterly 55 (October 1964): 157-69.

2. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 14-15 February 1936.
. Interview with Iohn P. Robin, 26 March 1983.
. Pittsburgh Press, 14 May 1947.
. Ibid, 13, 14 May 1947.
. Pittsburgh Press, I August 1947.
. Pennsylvania Manual, ”Election Statistics,” no. 88, 1948, p. 123ff.
. Pittsburgh Press, 9 March 1948.

9. David L. Lawrence to William S. Rahauser, 18 Iuly 1948. Shown to the author
by Iudge Rahauser.

10. Grand Jury Final Report, Iune Session, 1948, Miscellaneous Docket, Allegheny
County Court of Common Pleas, 30 September 1948 ; Pittsburgh Press, 30 September 1948.

11. Pittsburgh Press, 15, 16, 17 September 1948.

12. Grand Iury Final Report. The jury singled out Dean's district as ”an example
of the utter laxity of the local police for the enforcement of gambling laws. . . . His
do-nothing attitude toward the racketeers in his district demonstrates his utter unfit-
ness to serve and protect the citizens of the community.”

13. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 5 October 1948.

14. Ibid.; Pittsburgh Press, 5 October 1948.

15. Pittsburgh Press, 11 October 1948. The extent of political influence in police
employment was revealed by two incidents following Dean's dismissal. Councilman
Ioe McArdle, ignoring the overwhelming evidence against his protégé, attacked
Lawrence's action as ”a new low in undemocratic processes reminiscent of the totali-
tarian methods of ambitious dictators.” Several weeks later the post vacated by Dean
became the object of hot dispute among McArdle and leaders of the Third and Sixth
wards. All claimed the right to select the replacement.

16. Pittsburgh Press, 9 November 1949, 2 January 19 51,- Pittsburgh City Directories,
1950-53. Of the thirty-eight aldennen and constables who earned more than $500 for
their services, thirty-one were Democratic committeemen. All of the eight who earned
$4000 or more in 1950 were prominent ward politicians. Of the thirty-one aldermen
and constables elected immediately after the grand jury investigation, twenty-seven
held city jobs, and two were employed by labor unions. All were registered Democrats
and twenty-nine were actively involved in ward level politics.

17. The following account is from the Pittsburgh Press, 28 November, 2, 13, 14,
16 December 1949.

18. Hayllar, ”The Accommodation,” p. 186, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 13 February
1936. For a detailed analysis of the colorful career of Ray Sprigle see Alan Guy Sheffer,
”Investigative Reporter: Ray Sprigle of Pittsburgh” (Doctor of Arts diss., Carnegie Mellon
University, 1973). Sprigle won a Pulitzer Prize in 1938 for his expose of Supreme Court
Iustice Hugo Black's membership in the Ku Klux Klan. The Sprigle expose of corrup-
tion in the Pittsburgh police bureau ran from 2 February to 7 March 1950.

19. Ray Sprigle, ”Politics Blamed for Lax Police System Here,” Pittsburgh Post-
Gazette, 20 February—2 March 1950, 10, 14 Iuly 1950.

20. Minute Book, Pittsburgh City Council, letter from David L. Lawrence, 9 March
1950; Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 31 December 1953; Stanley Gorski, ”T he Staffing Poli-
cies of the Pittsburgh Bureau of Police” (Ph.D. diss., University of Pittsburgh, 1972),

pp. 179-81.
21. Hayllar, ”The Accommodation,” p. 213; ledger book of Willie Iones, reprinted

0o\I O\v1-PU-I

22

l 9 l 9 —l 9 2 9
Friends, Family, and Work

There was much to distinguish Second Lieutenant David Lawrence
from the thousands of veterans who returned to Pittsburgh in the
spring of 1919. He was approximately five feet, nine inches in height,
with athletic chest and shoulders, a thick neck, and a large head. His
dark brown hair was combed straight back, and his eyes were framed
by thick, rimless glasses. A square-set jaw, which could become fierce
when he was angered, was made less severe by the roundness of his
head and by the second chin that he acquired later in life. A broad
smile accented by deep lines and the wrinkles from the comers of
his eyes gave his publicity photos the almost stereotyped look of the
jovial, happy Irishman. The deep-set eyes and the glasses, however,
led to an erroneous characterization of him by some as ”cold and steely-
eyed.” But it was the very big head and shoulders that gave him a strong
appearance—”He was such an easily recognizable man.”1

In addition to his commanding physical presence, Lawrence pos-
sessed unusual stamina. During his early years he routinely worked
eight hours at his insurance business, met with political associates
during the early evening, and ended the night at a sporting event or
a dance. Campaigns were even more demanding. Evening whirlwind
tours of the city, during which he would speak at five or six sites,
usually concluded with strategy sessions at Democratic headquar-
ters lasting until one or two in the morning. Lawrence was always
the last to leave. Nearly all of his associates complained that he
overworked them, expecting them to maintain his hectic pace. A
number noted that his penchant for working weekends, particularly
Sundays, nearly ruined their marriages. Several commented on his
excellent physical condition, which he worked to maintain. ”I-Ie went
to the ’Y’ on a more or less daily basis. He never drank, he didn't smoke,

422 <1 Notes to Pages 306-20

in the Pittsburgh Press, 2, 3 April 1951; interview with Walter Giesey, 23 October 1982,
p. 24.

22. Pittsburgh Press, 22 June 1951.

23. Interview with Giesey, p. 24.

24. Ibid., p. 25.

25. Pittsburgh Press, 15 August 1952.

26. Gorski, ”Staffing Policies,” p. 177. Gorski, the son of a prominent police ofH-
cer, was able to interview a number of city policemen who have been unwilling to
testify to other researchers. The incident cited here comes from the testimony of an
unnamed officer.

27. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 12, 26 Iune 1957.

28. Commonwealth ex. rel. Maloney vs. Duggan et al., Pittsburgh Legal lournal
116, Habeas Corpus, no. 605, Iuly tenn, 1967, and no. 2592, October term 1967, p. 2.

29. United States vs. Maloney (Pittsburgh: U.S. District Court for Western Penn-
sylvania) Criminal Number 64-415, pp. 756-62, 298, 316. Sigal went ”out of business”
in 196 3 after he was convicted and jailed for bribing another police ofl-lcial. The offense
took place in 1957 while Lawrence was still mayor.

30. Gorski, ”Staffing Policies,” p. 186; speech of David L. Lawrence to the Pittsburgh
Press Club, 17 September 1957, p. 9, ACCD.

31. Chester Harris, Tiger at the Bar: The Life Story of Charles I. Margiotti (New
York, 1956), p. 442, interview with Dan Cercone, 11 August 1985, untranscribed; inter-
view with Frank Ambrose, 11 July 1984, p. 7.

32. Pittsburgh Press, 9 Iune I950; David L. Lawrence to Pittsburgh City Council,
Minute Book, Pittsburgh City Council, 9 Iune 1950, p. 318.

33. Interview with William Rahauser, 12 June 1981, p. 11; Pittsburgh Post-Gazette,
11 July 1950.

34. Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, 13 July 1950; Pittsburgh Press, 16 Iuly 1950.

35. Special Grand Iury Preliminary Report, Pittsburgh Press, 14 December 1950.

36. Charles I. Margiotti to Governor Iohn Pine, 24 February 19 51, reprinted in the
Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 25 February 1950.

37. Pittsburgh Press, 27 Iune 1951.

38. Ibid., 11 March, 9 April 1951.

39. Sally Shames, ”David L. Lawrence, Mayor of Pittsburgh: Development of a
Political Leader (Ph.D. diss., University of Pittsburgh, 1958), p. 221. Allegheny Asphalt’s
total bid during the eight-year period was approximately $200,000 less than that of
the competitive bidder, the Harrison Construction Company. The only other com-
pany to offer a bid was the T rimble Construction Company in 1950.

l> Politics as Usual

1. Interview with Frank Ambrose, 11 Iune 1984, p. 9.

2. Interview with Natalie Saxe, 19 June 1984, p. 5.

3. Interview with Walter Giesey by Weber, 23 October 1984, p. 22; interview with
Giesey by Thomas Donaghy, 10 September 1975, p. 7.

4. Allegheny County Bureau of Elections, Campaign Expense Records, 1949, 19 53,
1957, County Office Building, Pittsburgh; Pittsburgh Press, 28 September 1956.

5. Pittsburgh Press, 27 June 1957; Fortune, November 1957, Time, 30 October 19 57.

6. Interview with Iohn P. Robin, 26 March 1983, p. 30.

7. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 11 October 1949.

8. Ibid., 13 Iuly 1949.

Notes to Pages 320—33 l> 423

9. Interview with Giesey, p. 8.

I0. Pittsburgh Press, 2 December 1953.

11. Ibid., 28 Ianuary I954.

12. Interview with Andrew Fenrich by Thomas Donaghy, 8 July 1974, p. 3; inter-
view with Fenrich by Weber, 8 May 1981, pp. 2, 3.

13. Interview with Fenrich by Weber, p. 3.

14. Telephone interview with Fenrich, then secretary of the local party, 3 Iune
1985. Roberts and McClelland refused to leave the meeting, Fenrich related. The com-
mittee was forced to adjourn the meeting and reconvene at a later time that day to
complete their endorsements.

15. Policy committee members were not elected. The committee consisted of
representatives from four groups: (1) party oflicials elected on a statewide basis ; (2) fif-
teen members appointed by the state chairman, Maurice Splain, Lawrence's chosen
successor; (3) members of the state executive committee ; and (4) chairmen of counties
that went Democratic m the previous election, mostly from Western Pennsylvania.
Natalie Saxe, Richardson Dilworth’s executive secretary, testified to Lawrence's un-
contested leadership: ”The leading figures in the Philadelphia Democratic party [in
1950] were not divided as to who was the real boss of the Pennsylvania Democratic
party. None of them felt they were.” Interview with Natalie Saxe by Thomas Donaghy,
17 October 1975, p. 2.

16. Paul Beers, Pennsylvania Politics: Today and Yesterday (University Park, Pa.,
1981), p. 196.

17. Sally Stephenson, ”MichaelMusma1mo as a Symbolic Leader” (Doctor of Arts
diss., Carnegie Mellon University, 1981), p. IV-22; interview with Saxe, p. 2.

18. Pittsburgh Press, 12 December 1953.

19. Ibid., 19 February 19 54,- telephone interview with Genevieve Blatt, 6 lune 198 5.

20. Philadelphia Inquirer, 23 February 1954; interview with George Leader, 18
August 1982, p. 4.

21. Telephone interview with Genevieve Blatt, 6 Iune 198 5 ; interview with Leader,
p. 6 ; interview with Leader by Thomas Donaghy, 10 November 1975, p. 3.

22. Pennsylvania Manual, ”Pennsylvania Election Returns,” no. 92, 195 5, p. 99 Ff.

23. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 11 November 1954, 17 Ianuary 1955; interview with
Leader, p. 11.

24. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 25 December 1954.

25. Interview with David Randall, 19 Iune 1984, p. 2.

26. Interview with Leader, p. 12. State senators Ioe Barr, Iohn Dent, and Charles
Weiner all viewed Lawrence's role as supportive rather than domineering. Interview
with Ioe Barr, 3 February 1981; interview with Iohn Dent by Thomas Donaghy, 23 Iuly
1974; interview with Charles Weiner, 3 May 1983.

27. Pittsburgh Post—Gazette, 9 September 1948.

28. Harry S. Truman to David L. Lawrence, Lawrence Name File, 8 September
1948, HST Library.

29. Interview with David L. Lawrence, Washington, D.C., 3o Iune 1966, p. 23, oral
interview collection of the HST Library.

30. Ibid., p. 21.

31. Pittsburgh Press, 2, 31 March 1948.

32. Speech of David L. Lawrence to the Democratic National Convention, 12 Iuly
1948, ACCD.

33. Interview with Lawrence, HST Library, p. 25.

34. Interview with Iohn Iones, 19 February 1981, p. 11.

424 <1 Notes to Pages 334-46

35. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 29 Iune 1948; Pittsburgh Press, 14 Iuly I948.
36. Helen Fuller, ”The Man to Watch at the Democratic Convention,” Harper ’s
Magazine, August 1964, p. 50. '

37. Walter Iohnson, How We Drafted Adlai Stevenson (New York, 1951), p. 6.
38. Fuller, ”The Man to Watch,” 1964, p. 51.

39. Ibid., p. 41.

40. Interview with Genevieve Blatt, 19 June 1984, p. 1o.

41. Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, 24 Iune 1952.

42. Ibid., 27 Iuly 1952.

43. Ibid., 25 Iuly 1952.

44. Ibid.

45. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 27 September, 14 October, 9 November 1955.

46. Fuller, ”The Man to Watch,” p. 51.

47. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 8 November 1956.

l> Return to Harrisburg

1. Interview with Adolph Schmidt, 14 Iuly 1984, p. IH-7.

2. David Randall to Michael Weber, 26 July 1984.

3. Randall and Saxe agree upon the substance of the events at the meeting but
disagree upon Dilworth’s assessment of Leader's strength. Randall states that Dilworth
was ”wrong about Leader,” misreading his tactic with Green as a sign of weakness (Ran-
dall to Weber, 26 Iuly I984). Saxe writes that ”Dilworth (and others) had previously
felt other instances of Leader's malleability by Congressman Green” (Saxe to Weber,
3o Iuly 1984).

4. Interview with Walter Giesey by Thomas Donaghy, 19 September 197 5, p. 2 5 ,
phone interview with John P. Robin, 18 Iune 198 5 (both men provided nearly identical
accounts of the event); Pittsburgh Press, 9 Ianuary 1958.

5. Interview with Matthew McCloskey by Thomas Donaghy, 2 November 1970,
p. 8.

6. Interview with George Leader, 18 August 1982, p. 13; interview with Natalie
Saxe, 19 June 1984, p. 7.

7. Pittsburgh Press, 3 March 1958.

8. Paul Beers, Pennsylvania Politics, Today and Yesterday (University Park, Pa.,
1980), p. 252.

9. Pittsburgh Post—Gazette, 9, 29 September 1958; Pittsburgh Press, 2 November
1958.

10. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 10 October 1958; interview with David Randall, 19
June 1984, p. 4. The Pennsylvania bible belt encompasses the central section of the
state running from Harrisburg to Altoona and stretching from the New York to the
Maryland border.

11. Interview with Randall, p. 5; interview with Leader, p. 17.

12. Transcript, ”Meet the Press,” 16 August 1959, Washington, D.C., pp. 2, 3; Pitts-
burgh Press, 5 November 1958.

13. Daryl R. Fair, ”The Reaction of Pennsylvania Voters to Catholic Candidates,
Pennsylvania History 32 (]uly 1965): 305-15, William I. McKenna, ”The Influence of Re-
ligion in the Pennsylvania Elections of 1958 and 1960,” Pennsylvania History 29 (Oc-
tober 1962): 407-19. Both studies found that religion was a much more potent factor
in the presidential election of 1960. Ironically, the names of the two candidates report-

I!

Notes to Pages 346-60 l> 425

edly confused many voters and so it was not clear which was the Catholic and which
the Protestant.

14. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 7 Ianuary 1959.

15. Ibid.

16. Armual State of the City Address, 10 Ianuary 19 59, pp. 14-15, ACCD; Pittsburgh
Press, and Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 24 November 1958-11 Ianuary 19 59; Minute Book,
Pittsburgh City Council, 5 December 1958.

17. Governor David L. Lawrence, Inaugural Address, 20 Ianuary 1959, David L.
Lawrence Papers, Pennsylvania State Archives, Harrisburg,

18. Interview with David Donahoe, 20 June 1983, p. 8; interview with Iohn Jones,
19 February 1981, p. 22.

19. Pittsburgh Press, 21 Ianuary 1959.

20. Ibid.

21. Interview with Peter Wambach, 15 Iune 1982, p. 1.

22. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 13 May 1959; Pittsburgh Press, 11 March 1959.

23. The Tax Advisory Committee included: Clifford Hood, president, U.S. Steel;
David I. McDonald, president, United Steel Workers of America; George H. Love, chair-
man, Consolidation Coal Company; Frank Anderson, president, Miners National Bank,
Wilkes Barre; Harry Boyer, president, Pennsylvania CIO; C. Richard Fryling, president,
Pennsylvania Chamber of Commerce; Mayor Arthur Gardner, Erie; Thomas Kennedy,
vice-president, United Mine Workers; Councilman Ioseph S. Martin, Altoona; Mat-
thew H. McCloskey, Philadelphia contractor; Ioseph McDonough, president, Penn-
sylvania Federation of Labor; and Iames Symes, president, Pennsylvania Railroad.

24. Interview with Charles Weiner, 3 May 1983, p. 6.

25. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 22 April 1959; speech to the Municipal Forum of New
York, 28 December 1961, Pennsylvania State Archives, Harrisburg.

26. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 5 February 1960.

27. Ibid., 22 February 1960.

28. Pittsburgh Press, 19, 23 August 1946.

29. News release issued by the office of the Governor of Pennsylvania, 2 February
1960, David L. Lawrence Papers, Subject File, Highway Safety, carton 35, Pennsylvania
State Archives, Harrisburg.

30. Final Report of the Govemor’s Committee on Education, 4 April 1961, David L.
Lawrence Papers, Subject File, Education, carton 9, Pennsylvania State Archives,
Harrisburg.

31. Pittsburgh Press, 4 April 1961.

32. Ibid., 1 September 1960; interview with David Donahoe, 20 June 1983, p. 4.

33. The trips included two-week tours of Israel and South America and a full month
in japan. On the last two, the Lawrences traveled with a group of other governors and
their wives.

34. New York Times, 25 September 1959.

35. Ibid.; David L. Lawrence to Arthur Van Buskirk, 13 October 1959, David L.
Lawrence Papers, Subject File, Nikita Khrushchev, box 24, Pennsylvania State Archives,
Harrisburg.

36. Pittsburgh Press, 25 September 1959.

37. Theodore White, The Making of the President, 1960 (New York, 1961), p. 46.

38. Interview with Carmine Di Sapio, 21Iune 1984, p. 5; interview with David L.
Lawrence by Stefan Lorant, 14 December 1963, p. 59.

39. Interview with McCloskey by Donaghy, 2 November 1970, p. 3.

426 <l Notes to Pages 361-73

40. Ibid.; interview with Lawrence by Lorant, pp. 59-60.
41. Transcript, ”Meet the Press,” 6 August 1959, p. 3.

42. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, I February, 24 March I958; Pittsburgh Press, 4 May 19 58.

43. Typescript of autobiography by Milton Shapp, p. 224. Supplied to the author
by Shapp.

44. Interview with McCloskey, p. 5 ; Phil Graham, ”Notes on the 1960 Democratic
Convention,” 19 July 1960, and Joseph Alsop to Lyndon Johnson, 25 March 1964, both
in White House Central Files, Executive File, LBJ Library.

45. Interview with Lawrence by Lorant, p. 60.

46. Thomas B. Morgan, ”Madly for Adlai,” American Heritage, August 1984, p. 58 ;
interview with Gerald Lawrence, I7 August 1982, p. 33.

47. Interview with McCloskey, p. 6.

48. Pittsburgh Press, 15 July 1960.

49. William McKenna, ”Influence of Religion,” p. 416 ; Pennsylvania Manual, ”Elec-
tion Returns,” no. 94, I960.

50. Beers, Pennsylvania Politics, p. 23.

51. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 9 January 1963.

l> In Service to the Nation

1. Some contend that Lawrence dominated the Barr regime, but those close to
the administration insist that while Barr willingly conferred with Lawrence each Sat-
urday, he was always his own man. The available evidence confirms this.

2. Pittsburgh Press, I4 November 1962; Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 3 January 1963.

3. John F. Kennedy to David L. Lawrence, 2 January 1963, Central Name File,
Lawrence, box 1571, JFK Library.

4. Harry S. Truman to David L. Lawrence, 15 July 1949, Central Name File, ”Fa-
mous Names, Lawrence,” HST Library; Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 13 August 195 5, 27 Janu-
3fY 1959-

5. Executive Order 11063, 20 November 1962, President's Committee on Equal
Opportunity in Housing, LBJ Library.

6. David L. Lawrence, Remarks to the American University Forum on Local
Government and an Open Housing Market, 14 May 1963, p. I, President's Committee
on Equal Opportunity in Housing, LBJ Library; interview with Walter Giesey, 23 Oc-
tober 1984, p. 13.

7. The original eight members were Jack T. Conway, Washington; Theodore A.
Jones, Chicago; Charles Keller, New Orleans ; Ferdinand Kramer, Chicago; Cyril Mag-
nin, San Francisco; Roland M. Sawyer, Pittsburgh; Earl Schwulst, New York; and Lewis
Weinstein, Boston.

8. Pittsburgh Press, 24 March 1963, Lawrence, Remarks to American University
Forum, pp. 2~4; remarks of David L. Lawrence at the First Friday Club of Cleveland,
4 April 196 3, pp. 2, 4, 5, President's Committee on Equal Opportunity in Housing, LBJ
Library.

9. New York Times, 16 December 1963. The program's goals included: (I) inform-
ing the general public of the moral rightness of equal opportunity; (2) developing open
housing programs in metropolitan areas; and (3) accumulating and disseminating
information.

IO. Ibid., 15 June 1963.

II. Ferdinand Kramer to David L. Lawrence, 7 May 1963, President's Committee

on Equal Opportunity in Housing, LBJ Library; Executive Order 11063, p. 4.

Notes to Pages 373-81 D 427

12. New York Times, 26 April 1963.

I3. Memorandum for the President from Lee C. White, 8 Ianuary 1964, Executive
File, LB] Library.

14. David L. Lawrence to Kenneth O'Donnell, 6 Ianuary 1964, White House Cen-
tral File, LB] Library.

I 5. ”It will not be long before the election will be over,” Kramer wrote, ”and we
will then be face to face with the question as to whether the Order should be broad-
ened. . . . It is my feeling that we should put to the President in the strongest possible
terms, that this Executive Order should be broadened and if it is not broadened, the
next step, I think, should be the suggestion that the committee disband.” Ferdinand
Kramer to David L. Lawrence, 19 October 1964, President's Committee on Equal Op-
portunity in Housing, LB] Library.

16. Memorandum from Lee White to the President, 2 December 1964; memoran-
dum from lack Valenti to the President, 16 November 1964, White House Central File,
LB] Library; daily diaries of Lyndon B. Iohnson, Diary Cards and Appointment File,
all in LB] Library. The Diary and Appointment file indicates no meetings between
Johnson and Lawrence or his committee from 5 November 1964 to 17 February 196 5.

17. ’’Recommendation to the President by the President's Committee on Equal
Opportunity in Housing,” 16 March 196 5, p. 2, LB] Library.

18. Telephone interview with Walter Giesey, 5 Iuly 1985.

19. New York Times, 18 February, I9 November 1965; letters received by Presi-
dent's Committee on Equal Opportunity in Housing, 13 April 1965-16 December 196 5,
LB] Library. The president also received letters from Dale Thompson, president of Mort-
gage Bankers Association of America and john Glustrom, chairman of the board, Secu-
rity Corporation of America, supporting extension of the order.

20. Memorandum to the President from Joe Califano, 28 October 196 5, Human
Rights Collection, LB] Library. Califano’s emphasis.

21. Dictated note from Lyndon B. Iohnson to Ioseph Califano, 30 October 196 5,
Executive File, LB] Library; letter from Ferdinand Kramer to Lyndon B. Iohnson, 13
January 1967, President's Committee on Equal Opportunity in Housing, LB] Library.

22. Interview with Andrew Bradley by Thomas Donaghy, I August 1974, p. 13;
telephone interview with Walter Giesey; interview with David Donahoe, 2o Iune I98 3,
p. II.

23. Interview with Al Tronzo by Dodie Carpenter, 19 August 1974, p. 13.

24. Interview with Genevieve Blatt by Thomas Donaghy, 25 September 1974, p. II.

25. Sally Stephenson, ”Michael Musmanno as a Symbolic Leader” (Doctor of Arts
diss., Carnegie Mellon University, 1981), p. VH-4; interview with Genevieve Blatt,
22 Iune 1981, pp. II, 12. The ABA judicial code of ethics prohibits a judge from seeking
office while sitting on the bench, but the code has no legal standing. In his 1950 race
for lieutenant governor, Musmanno refused to resign his position as Common Pleas
judge.

26. Other candidates considered were Pittsburgh prothonotary David Roberts,
Philadelphia industrialist Milton S. Shapp, U.S. Representative Iohn Dent, and state
senators Leonard Staisey and Robert P. Casey.

27. Pittsburgh Press, I February 1964.

28. David L. Lawrence to john P. Robin, 21 September 1964, Lawrence Papers, Penn-
sylvania Archives, Harrisburg; Pennsylvania Manual, Election Returns, U.S. Senate,
no. 96, I964.

29. Typescript of autobiography of Milton Shapp, pp. 335, 337.

30. Richard Stolley, ”Hopeless Case of Milton Shapp,” Life, Iune 1966, pp. 68A—68D.

428 <1 Notes to Pages 382-91

31. Interview with Blatt, p. 17.

32. Shapp typescript, p. 335.

33. Stolley, ”Hopeless Case,” p. 68A; Shapp typescript, p. 344.

34. Shapp typescript, pp. 352-56.

35. Interview with Milton Shapp, 2o lune 1984, pp. 5, 6, 7, Pittsburgh Press, 21
May 1966 (emphasis mine); Pittsburgh Press, 6 Iune, II September 1966.

36. Interview with James Knox, 28 April 1981, p. 21.

37. Minute Book, Urban Redevelopment Authority, 4 November 1966.

38. Interview with David Donahoe, p. II; interview with Knox, p. 21; interview
with Frank Ambrose, 11 July 1984, p. 13.

39. Pittsburgh Press, 4 November I966.

40. Interview with Ambrose, p. 14,- with Knox, p. 21; with Andrew Fenrich, p. I6;
Pittsburgh Press, 4 November 1966. Accounts of the events may be found in all three
Pittsburgh newspapers, 4-6 November 1966.

41. Pittsburgh Press, 6 November 1966.

42. Ibid., 23 November 1966.

[> Epilogue

I. Pittsburgh Catholic, IO November 1966.

2. New York Times, 22 November 1966.

3. Pittsburgh Press, 25 November 1966.

4. Among those present were Governor Richard Hughes, New Iersey; Francis
Coffey, Irish counsel general; Matthew McCloskey, former ambassador to Ireland,-
mayors Iames Tate (Philadelphia), Ierome Cavenaugh (Detroit), Richard Lee (New
Haven), and fonner Philadelphia Mayor Richardson Dilworth. Representing President
Iohnson, who was ill, was his special assistant, Marvin Watson. Others in attendance
included Stewart Udall and Orville Freeman, cabinet members; Martin McNamara,
special assistant to Vice-President Humphrey ; several former Pennsylvania governors;
a number of congressmen, and several prominent Republicans, including Harvey Tay-
lor, the state chairman.

5. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 26 November 1966.

6. Holiday, March 1959, p. 8ofl.

Index

Abel, 1. W., 389

Action Housing, 272, 419n2

AFL (American Federation of Labor),
128-30, 219, 221, 251-52, 306

Air pollution control: as issue in 1945
mayoral campaign, 171, 211, 214; need
for, 198, 201-04; and Pittsburgh Re-
naissance, 238, 240, 242, 244-47, 249-
50, 415n2o

Albert, Nathan, 285

ALCOA, 203, 236

Alexander, I. Hope, 414n16

Allegheny Asphalt and Paving Com-
panyl 309"I4/ 4221139

Allegheny Conference on Community
Development (ACCD): and Civic
Arena, 255-71; in election of 1945, 195,
204-07, 211, 214; and housing, 278;
and industrial expansion, 263-66, and
Pittsburgh Renaissance, 195, 204-07,
231, 233, 237-47; and Point State Park,
255-61, and URA, 417n6

Allegheny County Board of Commis-
sioners, 38, 62

Allegheny County for Roosevelt Club,
48

Allegheny County League of Boroughs,
Townships, and Third-Class Cities,
241

Allegheny County Planning Commis-
sion, 233

Allied Roosevelt Clubs of Western
Pennsylvania, 53

Alpem, Anne X., 224-25, 240, 280, 298,
310, 313, 349, 4141216

Alsop, Joseph, 363

Ambrose, Frank, 27, 78, 157, 316, 377,
385-86, 390

American Civil Liberties Union, 374

American Legion of Allegheny County,
286

Americans Battling Communism, 283,
285

Americans for Democratic Action
(ADA), 169

Anderson, Frank, 425n23

Andrews, Hiram, 352

Armstrong, Ioseph, 38, 41, 44

Arvey, Iacob,184, 332-33, 360, 363, 389

Associated Charities of Pittsburgh, 204

A. W. Mellon Educational and Chari-
table Trust, 271

Bailey, Iohn, 360, 362

Bard, Guy K., 136, 138, 226

Barkley, Alben, 184, 291, 332, 334, 336

Barr, Caldwalder, 38-39, 41

Barr, Ioseph: as Democratic state chair-
man, 329, 335; in election of 1931, 44-
45; of 1945, 191; of 1949, 248; of 1958,
340, 345; of 1964, 378-79; as friend of
Lawrence, 160, 386, 389-90; as mayor,
308, 368, 377; and Pittsburgh Renais-
sance, 241, 255; as state senator, 74,

329, 335, 352, 4231126

Bashore, Ralph, 113-14, 4o7n2o 429

430 <1

Index

Bassett, Robert, 242

Bates, Iimmy, 78

Bell, Marshall, 116

Benedum, Michael, 52, 53, 63, 87, 117,
4031143

Ben Gurion, David, 78, 291

Bethlehem Steel Corporation, 198

Bierly, Robert, 4o9n29

Bigelow, Edward, 14-15

Bigger, Frederick, 204, 234, 265

Black Democratic Club of Allegheny
County, 49

Blacks: in election of 1932, 49-50; of
1933, 59, 62; of 1966, 382-83; and hous-
ing, 272-79, 369-76, 419114; in Law-
rence cabinet, 414n16; and Lower Hill
project, 270-75; and Pittsburgh Ren-
aissance, 278-82; unemployment
among, 49, 198,- as voters, 49-50, 59,
62, 79, 98-99, 188, 382-83, 375, 4021126

Blatt, Genevieve: as friend of Lawrence,
83, 386; at Democratic conventions,
185-86, 332, 335-38, 364, 378-80; as
Lawrence protégé, 163, 168-70, 172,
174

Block, William, 117

Booth-Flinn Construction Company, 25

Bowser, Spurgeon, 146-49

Boyer, Harry, 425n23

Bradley, Andrew, 26

Brandt, Willy, 78

Brennen, William I., 11-14, 21, 26, 28, 38

Brown, Homer, 72

Brown, Pat, 360

Brusco, Iean, 302-04

Building Trades Council, 248

Bureau of Smoke Control, 246

Bureau of Smoke Regulation, 202

Burke, I. Vincent, 267

Business interests: and civic welfare,
418n18, Lawrence's courtship of, 211,
214, 215, 344,- and Pittsburgh Renais-

sance, 194-96, 233-37, 255-66, 276,- and

state tax commission, 351; and URA,
417n6
Butler, Paul, 362

Califano, Ioseph, 375, 376
Carnegie Illinois Steel Company, 257
Casey, Robert P., 381-83, 427n26

Catholicism, as political issue: and eth-

nic voters, 50-54; as liability, 34-36,
55, 60, 130-31, 193, 343-47; and 1960
Democratic convention, 360, 364-65

Cavenaugh, Ierome, 428114

Cermak, Anton, 48, 165

Charles, Andrew, 303

Children's Hospital, 263, 265

CIO (Congress of Industrial Organiza-
tions), 128-30, 183-85, 219, 221, 251-52,
289

Citizens’ League of Pittsburgh, 14, 61,
39, 115

Civic Arena, 263, 266-75

Civic Club of Allegheny County, 15,
204, 245, 346

Civic Light Opera Association, 266,
270-71, 275

Civic Unity Council, 279-82

Civil rights, 369-76

Civil Works Administration, 67

Clark, Iames, 340

Clark, Ioseph, 355, 361, 378-79

Coal and iron police, 107, 115

Coffey, Francis, 428n4

Cohen, Herbert, 112, 138, 4o9n29

Colautti, Aldo, 173, 176

Colegrove, Arthur, 148-49, 4071120

Coleman, Morton, 82

Columbus, Primo, 26

Commission for the Elimination of
Smoke, 203

Communism, 226, 282-86, 378-80,
419n14, 4201115

Community Action Program, 82

Compton, Earl V., 147-48

Conant, Iames B., 356

Conemaugh Dam, 238-39

Conley, Louis, 209

Consolidation Coal Company, 249

Continental Can Corporation, 263

Conway, Al, 68, 73

Conway, lack T., 426n7

Coolidge, Calvin, 34

Cooper, Clarence, 308

Copenhaver, I. R., 153

Cooperweld Corporation, 264

Corruption, in Pittsburgh politics, 19-
20, 30-36, 293-314

C0X, James, 47, 48, 53

Coyne, Iamesz and election of 1931, 37-
43; of I933, 56-58; of I936, I20; of I945,
209-10; financial dealings with Law-
rence of, 23, 25; and McNair, 118; as
Republican boss, 14, 31, 52, 63

Craig, David, 76, 308-09

Crime, 272-73, 293-308

Crosstown Boulevard, 270, 275

Cmmp, Edward H., 48, 65

Culbertson, George, 281

Curley, Iames, 48, 65, 80

Cvetic, Matthew, 283-86

Czachowski, Raymond, 46

Daley, Richard, 80, 230

Daugherty, Thomas, 39-40, 41, 55

David Leo Lawrence Political Club, 21

Davis, Iames, 135, 140, 142

Davis, Iohn Morgan, 173, 342

Davis, John W., 34

Davis, William, 255

Dean, Iohn, 299-300, 421nn12, 15

De Cenzo, Erma, 75

Democratic party, national: convention
of 1912, 18; of 1920, 29-30; of 1924, 34;
of I928, 34; of I932, 47-48; of I936,
119-20; of I940, 182-83; of 1944, 183-86;
0f I948, 331-33; of I952, 334, 336-67; of
1956, 338; of 1960, 357-67; National
Committee Negro division of, 49

, Pennsylvania: legislative suc-

cess in 1930s of, 103-05, 110-11, 120-24;

state committee of, 55, 90-93, 129,

132, 226-27, 381-82

, Pittsburgh: corruption in, 133-
44, 421n16; early weakness of, 19, 30,
32-33, 44; ethnic and black support
for, 59, 62; female wing of, 30; fund-
raising for, 52, 71, 94-95, I54-55,
4o3n43; internal conflicts in, 128-32;
Italian Democratic Committee of, 51;
organization of, 47, 69-85, 380-83;
and Pittsburgh Package, 240-43; and
police scandal, 299-301; reform ele-
ments in, 15, 37, 38; and voter regis-
tration, 208

Denny, Ebenezer, I89

Denny, Harmar, 87, 189, 209-10

Denny, William, 202

Dent, Iohn, 4231126, 427n26

Index l> 431

Depression, 46-55, 65-72, 98, 106-09,
198

Devlin, James S., 313, 4141116

Diehl, William 1., 116

Dileisi, Sam, 309-10

Dilworth, Richardson, 172, 283, 335,
340-42, 366, 423nI5, 424123, 428124

Dinan, Charles, 26

Di Salle, Mike, 360

Di Sapio, Carmine, 332, 360, 364, 389

Doherty, Robert, 205

Dolson, James, 284-85

Donahoe, Arma Mae. See Lawrence,
Anna Mae

Donahoe, David, 162-64, 166, 348, 357,
377, 335

Dorsey, Iohn, 251

Drew, Iohn, 254, 292, 307, 339

Driscoll, William, 414n16

Dufl, James H., 226, 240-41, 284, 311

Duggan, John, 68, 69

Duggan, Robert W., 377

Dunn, Thomas, 32-33

Duquesne Light and Power Company,
218-27, 417n6

Earle, George: and black vote, 98-99; in
election of 1934, 91-93, 96; of 1938,
132-36; of 1958, 344; fraud charges
against, 134-43, 148-50; as governor,
62, 97, 101-02, 107-11; at 1936 Demo-
cratic convention, 119; wealth of, 98

Earle, Thomas, 99

East End Residents Association, 268

East Liberty Chamber of Commerce,
268

Eaton, Oliver, 151

Educational reform, Pennsylvania, 172,
356-57, 366

Eisenhower, Dwight D., 331-32, 334,
337‘38

Elections, Allegheny County, 38, 39-46

, Pennsylvania: of 1934, 89-101; of

1938, 128-44; of 1958, 340-47; of 1966,

380-86

, Pittsburgh: of 1925, 31-33; of

I929, 32, 37, 38; of I933, 55-64, 66, 70-

74; of I941, I88-90; 0f I945, I90-96,

279; of I949, 248-54; of I953, 259-60;

of I957, 339

 

 

Friends, Family, and Work [> 23

and he generally didn't overeat. He didn't have any physical weak-
nesses. After Prohibition, according to his daughter Arma Mae, he
started to drink beer because he had fought so hard for the twenty-
first amendment that he thought he ought to try it. But that didn't
last long, for he started to put on weight, and then he quit. ”In his
later years I never saw him drink a thing. He was very much against
drinking.” His intolerance for what he considered to be vices ex-
tended to excessive gambling and smoking. Anna Mae smoked for
years but never dared to do so in her father's presence.”

Upon his return to Pittsburgh, Lawrence resumed a position with
the insurance agency he and Frank Harris, a state senator and later
Allegheny County Republican chairman, formed in 1916. A short time
later he encouraged his old friend Iimmy Kirk to join the rapidly grow-
ing firm. Adding second mortgage loans to the business, the company
experienced moderate success, and Lawrence eventually bought out
Harris and became the company president. The firm gave him a mod-
est income throughout his life and became an important source of
security at intervals when his political career turned sour. From the
time he left state government in 1938, for example, through 1944, it
provided the major income for the Lawrence family. During his years
as mayor of Pittsburgh, the company provided an armual salary of
fifteen to twenty thousand dollars. In spite of occasional attempts
by political opponents to embarrass Lawrence, claiming that his firrn’s
sale of surety bonds to the city constituted a conflict of interest, he
frequently advised young politicians to develop an outside business as
a hedge against sudden unemployment at the hands of the electorate.

Lawrence's early experiences in business resulted in a strong fis-
cal conservatism that was evident in both his private business deal-
ings and his management of public budgets. In 1920 he and a group
of associates, including Iimmy Coyne, the Republican boss of Alle-
gheny County, loaned $80,000 to E. N. Gillespie, a businessman, to
purchase stock in the Guffey-Gillespie Oil Company. Lawrence's share
was $15,000. N0 accounting of the fund was ever made, and the group
was forced to sue for return of the funds. It was not until 1929 that
they were awarded the $80,000 plus $37,919.40 in interest.3 The award,
and other funds, unfortunately would not remain in Lawrence's hands
very long. Shortly after, he suffered severe losses in the stock market
crash, which nearly caused him to lose the insurance firm. Several
costly loans were required to bail out the floundering company. These
two occurrences, one following on the heels of the other, relieved
Lawrence of whatever speculative urges he may have possessed. He
later purchased small amounts of stock in relatively safe utilities and

432 <1 Index

, U.S.: of 1924, 31; of 1928, 34; of
1932, 66; of 1936, 62, 119—20,- of 1940,
154-55, 179-83; of 1944, 183-87; of 1948,
297; of I960, 354, 365-66; of I964, 378-
84

Elmer, Iohnny, 73

Emmerling, Rita, 118

Equitable Life Assurance Society, 239,
247, 256, 259, 261-62

Ethnic voters, 282, 382-83, 4o4n59

Fagan, Patrick, 75, 191, 194, 251

Fair Employment Practices Act (Penn-
sylvania), 351

Fair Employment Practices Commis-
sion (Pittsburgh), 280-82

Fair Housing Act (Pennsylvania), 354

Fair Housing Act (Pittsburgh), 272,
282

Fairless, Ben, 242

Fairley, George A., 414n16

Fairley, James, 299, 303

Fair Trades Practices Act (Pennsyl-
vania), 122

Falk, Leon, 218, 291

Farley, Iames A., 48, 67, 142

Federal Emergency Relief Act (FERA),
168

Federal Home Loan Bank, 370, 373

Federal Housing Act, 369

Federal Housing Authority, 372-73

Fenrich, Andrew “Huck,” 68, 78, 386,
390

Fine, Iohn, 27o, 285-86, 312

Finnegan, James, 328, 335-36

Fitzgerald, Iack, 69

Flaherty, Peter, 377, 4o5n24

Fleming, Robert, 242

Flinn, William, 20, 25

Flood control, 199-202, 211, 214, 238-40,
244

Florigr A11 297-99

Flynn, Edward H., 48

Flyrm, Rufus, 242

Fowler, Joseph, 374, 376

Frediani, Muzio, 51

Freeman, Orville, 428n4

Free work scandal, 309-14

Frey, Edward, 191, 194, 310-12

Fryling, Richard, 425n23

Fulton, Iames, 288
Furman, Roy E., 121, I39, 341

Gabriel, Iohn, 390

Gallagher, Thomas, 60, 347

Gardner, Arthur, 4251123

Garner, ”Cactus Iack,” 183

Gateway Center project, 239, 256-63

Gavin, Thomas, 336

General Motors Corporation, 263

Giesey, Walter: as aide to Lawrence,
27, 170,176, 230, 233, 350-51, 370-71,
374; and Duquesne Light strike, 221;
in election of 1958, 341, and fraud
trials of 1938-39, 157,- and 1960 Demo-
cratic convention, 361,- and police
scandal, 306-07

Girard, Anthony, 409n29

Glustrom, Iohn, 427n19

Golden, Helen, 28

Golden Triangle Association, 204

Govemor’s Committee on Education,
356

Govemofs Conference on Highway
Safety, 355

Govemofs Council on Economic De-
velopment, 354

Graham, Charles I., 52, 255-58

Graham, Philip, 363

Graves, Marion, 228

Green, William, 340-45, 361-62, 366

Greene, Homer, 414n16

Greene, Iames, 238-39

Griffith, E. A., 148

Griswold, Ralph, 234, 243

Gross, Howard “Buck,” 310-12

Grosso, Sam, 199

Grosso, Tony, 199, 307-08

Grundy, Ioseph, 25, 51, 95, 97, 332

Gui-fey, Ioseph: and conflict with Law-
rence, 137, 158-60, 177, 179-85, 4o8n1o;
as county Democratic chainnan, 29-
30; as FDR supporter, 48-49, 53, 55,-
and fraud trials of 1938-39, 143, 150,
152,- and 1936 Democratic convention,
119,- as patron of Lawrence, 18-19, 29-
30, 34, 36, 93, 101; as powerful Demo-
crat, 55, 59, 67, 100,- as U.S. senator,
62, 90-93, 96, 101, 129-32, 158-60, 226;
wealth of, 98, 400n34, 403n43

Gulf Oil Corporation, 236
Gunther, Blair, 286
Guthrie, George W., 16, 17

Hague, Frank, 48, 65, 185-86, 189, 332-
33

Hannegan, Robert, 184-86, 330

Harr, Luther, 181

Harris, Frank J., 23, 112, 120

Harris, Roy, 286

Harris, William, 229

Harris-Lawrence Insurance Agency, 23-
25/ 37—38/ 

Hazard, Leland, 260

Hazlett, Theodore, 234-35, 240-42, 257-
58, 264-65, 274-75

Hean, Frank, 153

Heinz, Howard, 204

Heinz Foundation, 271

Helbert, James, 386

Hemphill, John M., 36

Henry, John, 42, 47, 56, 87, 4o3n43

Herron, John, 46, 57-58

Hester, Thomas, 32, 39, 42, 47

Hickok, Lorena, 68-69

Highway safety, 352, 355

Hillman, James, 276

Hillman, Sidney, 184

H. J. Heinz Corporation, 239

Home Owners Loan Corporation, 59,
67

Hood, Clifford, 425n23

Hood-Kennedy committee, 348-51

Hoover, Herbert, 34, 47, 5o, 94

Hopkins, Harry, 68-69, 111-12, 183

House Un-American Activities Com-
mittee, 226, 282-83

Housing, 195, 367-76, 419n2, 426n9

Housing and Home Finance Agency,
270, 273

Huffman, Harvey, 121

Hughes, Charles, 150-53

Hughes, James, 217

Hughes, Richard, 428114

Human Relations Commission, Penn-
sylvania, 272, 281-92, 354

Humphrey, Hubert, 333-34, 359, 374,
376, 389

Huston, John, 60, 80, 191, 194-95, 211-12,
251

Index [> 433

Income tax, proposed, 123

Industrial-Economic Research Council,
263-66

International Plasterers’ Union, 248, 253

Irvis, K. Leroy, 279, 419n4

Italian-Americans, as Voters, 50-54, 59,
62, 97-99, 188, 283, 378-89

Italian Democratic Committee, 51

Jacoby, Wilmer, 280

Jager, Oscar, 381

James, Arthur, 140-42

Jews, as voters, 168-69, 290, 334, 381

Iobless party, 47, 53

Johnson, Albert, 351, 356-57

Johnson, Carmen, 31-32

Johnson, Lyndon B., 78, 359, 362-65,
373-76, 389

Johnson, Robert, 69

Johnston, Leslie, 89, 115

Jones, Charles Alvin, 131-32, 136, 143,
187, 347

Jones, Edward: and conflict with Mc-
Nair, 87, 95, 98, 126; as speechwriter,
56-57, 59, 67, 95; as state secretary of
labor and industry, I02, 112

Jones, John, 82, 178, 331, 333, 350

Jones, Paul, 278

Jones, Theodore, 426117

Jones, Walter, 152, 159

Jones and Laughlin Steel Corporation,
239, 262, 264-66, 418n20

Judicial reform, 123

Kalodner, Harry, 112, 154, 4071120

Kaminsky, Duke, 350

Kane, John: as county commissioner,
68, 72, 220; as critic of McNair, 88;
and Duquesne Light strike, 220; and
election of 1940, 180; of 1945, 191-94,
219, 214; of 1949, 248-52; of 1958, 346;
as independent Democrat, 188, 191;
and labor unions, 91, 248-52; Law-
rence’s dependence on, as mayor, 217,
225; and Pittsburgh Renaissance, 233,
241, 243; and police scandal, 304, ri-
Valry with Lawrence of, 330, 335, 337;
and wage tax, 289

Kane, Leonard, 254, 260

Kane, Rita Wilson, 162

434 <1

Index

Katzenbach, Nicholas, 373-74, 376

Kaufrnarm, Edgar, 244, 257-58, 266, 276

Kaufrnann Foundation, 266

Kefauver, Estes, 78, 334-38

Keller, Charles, 426n7

Kelley, Iohn, 133

Kelly, Edward, 65, 184-86

Kelly, George, 194, 210, 214

Kelly, Iack, 90, 104, 152, 180

Kennedy, Iohn F., 338, 359-66, 368-76

Kennedy, Iohn 1., 192

Kennedy, Ioseph, 360-61

Kennedy, Robert, 364, 389-90

Kennedy, Thomas, 91-92, 113-14, 128-32,
I36-37, 4252223

Khrushchev, Nikita, 358-59

Kilgallen, Thomas, 232, 245-46, 265,
310-12

King, Robert B., 266-68, 419n24

Kirk, Iames: as business partner, 23-26;
as cabinet member, 414n16; as Demo-
cratic party ofl-lcer, 74, 78; and elec-
tion of I931, 40; of I933, 55; of I945,
191,- and ethnic vote, 50; as friend of
Lawrence, 20, 231; indictment of, 145,
150; as McNair staffer, 87, 115, 117, 127

Kirkpatrick, H. B., 218

Kline, Charles: and election of 1931,
41*43; 33 maY0T; 31*33; 45—46, 52, 57;
304; as Republican boss, 14-15, 31,
63

Knox: Ian)-es; 757 78/ 340/ 34-2‘! 
389-90

Koppers Company, 236, 264, 271

Kramer, Ferdinand, 372, 374, 376, 426n7

Kurtzman, David, 349

Laboon, Iohn, 67

Labor unions: and Democratic party,
106-09, 115, in election of 1934, 91-92;
of 1944, 184-85, 188; of 1949, 248-53; of
1958, 344; of I960, 364-65, of I966, 383;
and govemor’s tax commission, 351;
Lawrence's contest with, as mayor,
217-27; Lawrence's support for, 18, 44,
171; and New Deal, 121-22; power of
in 1938, 128-31; and smoke control,
246, 248-53; and wage tax, 289-90;
and workingmen’s compensation, 18

La Follette, Robert, 34, 50, 54

La Guardia, Fiorello H., 66, 80, 125, 165,
I73

Laun, Robert, 310-12

Lavuola, James, 74

Law, Iames, 133

Lawler, Michael, 340

Lawrence, Alyce Golden (wife), 27-29,
160-627 I787 316/   370

Lawrence, Arma Mae (daughter), 23, 28,
160, 330, 401n13

Lawrence, Catherine Conwell (mother),
6-8 1

Lawrence, Charles (brother), 7-8

Lawrence, Charles B. (father), 6-7, 10, 11

Lawrence, David Leo: abstinence of,
22-23, 178; background of, 5-10; and
“boss” label, 350,- campaign style of,
343-45; and city council, 232-33; and
civil liberties, 282-86; competitive-
ness of, 33-34, 47; and educational
refonn, 356-57, 366,- and FDR, 47-55,-
financial troubles of in 1929, 37-38;
fiscal conservatism of, 23-24, 169,- and
fraud trials of 1938-39, 143, 147-56; as
governor, bipartisan support for, 347-
57; and highway safety, 351, 355; and
housing, 195, 367-76, 384; and Israel,
290; and labor unions, 13, 18, 44, 171,
217-27; and LB], 362-65; and McNair,
55-64, 127; management style of, 75-
85, 173-77, I9I, 228-31, 293, 348-49;
and Margiotti, 133-44, 156-58, 177; and
news media, 82-83, 217-22, 339, 360;
organizational skills of, 32, 53, 63;
party posts of, Is, 30, 33, 62, 67-85, 93,
101, 181-86; personality and convic-
tions of, 84-85, 165-67, 170, 172-73;
and police scandal, 131-44, 293-309;
political appointments of, 10-14, 19,
62, 101-05, 107-19, 124, 369-76; prag-
matism of, 16, 17, 20, 84-85, 108-10,
124; and Republican business elite,
16, 17, 20, 109-11, 194-96, 225; and Re-
publican party, 33, 4I—46, 52, 55-61;
social concerns of, I08, 354; sports
enthusiasm of, 81, 377; and Truman,
186-91; and URA, 256-66; wage tax of,
286-90

Lawrence, David Leo, Ir. (son), 28, 160,
4o1n13

Lawrence, Gerald (son), 28, 355, 386,
401n13; as campaigner with Lawrence,
163-64, 315, 344; on Lawrence's char-
acter and behavior, 157, 160-64, 178,
370; and the 1960 Democratic conven-
tion, 363

Lawrence, Isaac (brother), 6

Lawrence, Mary Alice, (daughter), 38,
160, 330, 4o1n13

Lawrence, William Brennan (son), 28,
160, 401n13

Leader, George, 290, 340-45, 355, 382,
4?-4113

Leader administration, 348, 351

League of Women Voters, Pittsburgh,
68, 245, 307

Lee, Richard, 428114

Leonard, Edward 1., 203, 232, 246-53,
267, 301, 306

Leslie, Artemas C., 295-96

Leslie, Max, 31, 295

Lewis, Iohn L., 128-30, 137

Little New Deal for Pennsylvania,
coinage of name for, 98, 102-05, 110;
impact of, 121-24, 278; Republican op-
position to, 140; Lawrence's commit-
ment to, 166-68, 328,- roots of, 18

Little Wagner Act, 121, 123

Livengood, William 8., 342-43

Love, George H., 425n23

Love, Gilbert, 82

Lowenthal, Alex, 290-92

Lower Hill project, 270-75, 282

L’Un1'011e, 60

MacAd0o, William, 34

McArdle, Ioseph: conflict with Law-
rence of, 177, 232; as labor candidate,
76, 80; and police scandal, 298, 421n15;
and smoke control, 246

McArdle, P. I., 57, 60, 61, 88, 188

McBride, Thomas, 285, 342

McCance, Pressly H., 219, 222-23

McCarthy, Eugene, 364

McCarthy, Ioseph, 283

McClelland, William, 191, 289-90, 340,
342, 362, 379

McCloskey, Matthew, 90, 133-34, 144,

I80, 335, 342, 360-65, 425n23, 428124
McCready, Harrison, 88

Index l> 435

McDonald, David 1., 252, 425n23

McDonough, Iames, 425n23

McFarland, Kennit, 82

McG0nigle, Arthur T., 343

McGovern, Charles “Buck,” 20, 32, 38-
41, 44-45

McGrady, Iohn, 72

McGuire, Karen, 386

Machine politics, 65-72

Macing, 57-58, 4051217

Mackrell, Ioseph, 57, 60, 61, 4o3n43

McNair, William: chosen by Lawrence,
55-63; eccentricity of, 115, 124-27; in
election of 1921, 31,- of 1931, 39-40; of
1933, 55-63, 86-89, 94, 4041259; of 1936,
66; of 1938, 133; Lawrence's leniency
toward, 171; as party maverick, 74, 83,
84/ 86-891 94/ 133} as mayor; 70/ 108/
405113; and ripper bill, 111, 115-18; as
U.S. Senate candidate, 39, 92, 96

McNamara, Martin, 428n4

McNutt, Paul, 183

Magee, Christopher, 14

Magee, William A., 14-15, 16, 31, 61, 209

Magnin, Cyril, 426n7

Malone, Iames, 32, 54, 87, 209-10, 240-
41

Maloney, Lawrence, 286, 297-300,
304-05, 308

Ma11ko, George, 309-11

Mansfield, William, 38, 41, 44-45

Margiotti, Charles I.: and communism,
284; as enemy of Lawrence, 157-58,
349; and fraud trials of 1938-39, 134-
44, 145-56; and free work scandal,
310-12; in govem0r’s cabinet, 4o7n20;
as gubernatorial candidate, 96-102,
123, 133-44; and Italian vote, 379;
publicity-seeking tactics of, 134-44;
as state attorney general, 102, 310-12

Marshall, Thomas, 268

Martin, Edward W., 32, 181-82, 220, 226

Martin, Ioseph S., 425n23

Martin, Park, 233-38, 241-43, 246, 258,
349

Matson, Marjorie, 284-86, 420n15

Mellon, Richard Beatty, 204, 236,
4031243, 4161110

Mellon, Richard King: as civic leader,
205-06, 4161110; as friend of Lawrence,

436 <1

Index

Mellon, Richard King (cont)
259-60, 262, 389; party donations of,
204, 236, 403n43, 416n1o,- and Pitts-
burgh Renaissance, 233, 236, 242-43;
social concerns of, 276

Mellon, William L.: as civic leader,
204,- and internal battles in Republi-
can party, 52, 95 ; party donations of,
4o3n43; as Republican boss, 14-15, 25-
33, 52, 63

Mellon National Ba11k and Trust Com-
pany, 236, 262

Mellon Square Park, 260, 263

Metropolitan Life Insurance Company,
256

Meyers, Meridith, 160, 179, 181, 183

Michener, Iames, 175

Miller, Emma Gufiey, 183-84

Miller, Irving, 290

Miller, Mrs. I. 0., 43-44, 245

Monahan, Kap, 387

Monroney, Mike, 363-64

Morris, Roland S., 92

Moses, Campbell, 386

Moses, Robert, 204-07

Mueller, George L., 218-27

Murray, Ioseph, 373

Murray, Philip, 183-84, 223, 251-52, 265,
282

Musmanno, Michael, 283-86, 340, 342,
378-80; 4I9nI4I 4271125

NAACP (National Association for the
Advancement of Colored People),
272, 282

Napolitan, Ioe, 381

National Association of Real Estate
Boards, 372, 374

National Committee Against Discrimi-
nation in Housing, 374

National Council of Churches, 61

National Urban League, 274, 280

Negro Citizens’ Democratic Commit-
tee, 99

Nelson, Steve, 284-86

New Deal: Lawrence's commitment to,
123-24, 167-69; in the 1940s, 194, 208,
214; and Pittsburgh politics, 59-60,
62-65, 90, 98-101, 108,- roots of, 17-18;
as source of patronage jobs, 65-72

New Frontier, 17-18
News media: and death of Lawrence,
388-89; and Duquesne Light strike,
225, early Republican bias of, 34, 40-
42; in election of 1931, 40, 42,- of 1945,
I96, 210, 2I2; of I952, 335; of I958, 346;
and fraud trials of 1938-39, 145-46,-
and free work scandal, 312-14; friend-
liness to Lawrence as governor, 350,
353,- and Guffey-Lawrence conflict,
180, Lawrence's use of, 82-83, 217-22,
339, 360; and Lower Hill project, 272-
73; and McNair, 124-27; and Pitts-
burgh Renaissance, 228, 339; and po-
lice scandal, 295-98, 301-05; and
redbaiting of 1950s, 283-84; and
Shapp, 381-83; and smoke control,
246-49; and wage tax, 289
Nixon, Richard, 344, 365

Olbum, Dave, 76
O’Mahoney, Ioseph, 333
Onda, Andrew, 284-85
Onnansky, Ioseph, 4o9n29

Palmer, A. Mitchell, 30

Papale, Charles A., 213

Parish, Daniel, 26, 310-14

Parish, Michael, 310-14

Parkinson, Thomas, 256

Patronage, 65-72, 126

Pendergast, Thomas, 48, 65, 184, 189
Penn-Lincoln Parkway, 214
Pennsylvania Economy League, 231,

234, 240, 258, 278
Pennsylvania Equal Rights Bill, 279
Pennsylvania General State Authority,
129
Pennsylvania Labor Relations Board, 122
Pennsylvania Local Works Division, 67
Pennsylvania Manufacturers Associa-
tion, 332
Pennsylvania Railroad, 242
Pennsylvania Relief Works Division, 67
Pennsylvania State Education Associa-
tion, 353

Pennsylvania Turnpike, 122-23

Perry, David, 143, 4091229

Perry, I. Lester, 257-58

Philadelphia Independent, 99

Pinchot, Gifford, 51, 68, 95-98, 107, 111, 130

Pioneer Materials Co., 146, 150

Pittsburgh: air pollution in, 171, 198,
201-04, 211, 214, 238, 240, 242, 244-50,
415n2o; blacks in, 26, 79, 98-99, 188,
270-751   in! 197-2071 211/
216; corrupt politics in, 19-20, 30-36;
ethnic voters in, 3-5, 50-54, 97-99,
188, 283, 378-80; effects of Depression
in, 46-55; flooding of, 199-202; housing
in, 195, 272-79, 369; Italian-Americans
int 5O_54r 59/ 62'; 97-991 188/ 283/ 
80; respiratory disease in, 203; slums
of, 199-200, 270-75; strikes in, 216-27;
unemployment in, 46-47, 49, 198;
ward voting patterns of, in 1931, 36; in
I932, 49, 50, 54,- in I933, 58, 60,- in
I934, 79; in I945, 211, 213, 216; in I949,
251-53; wealth distribution in, 69. See
also Elections: Pittsburgh Renaissance

Pittsburgh and West Virginia Railroad,
255

Pittsburgh Board of Realtors, 282

Pittsburgh Chamber of Commerce, 204,
2'15; 221/ 2'38; 245-46; 2'57! 2'71; 

Pittsburgh City Council, 16, 62, 232-33,
2'60; 279-82’;  

Pittsburgh City Plarming Commission,
263-65, 269

Pittsburgh Coke and Chemical Com-
pany, 263-64

Pittsburgh Consolidation Coal Com-
pany, 236

Pittsburgh Courier, 49-50, 98

Pittsburgh Henry George Club, 108

Pittsburgh Housing Authority, 270-75

Pittsburgh Laymen’s Council, 281

Pittsburgh Package, 240-43, 416n18

Pittsburgh Pirates, 31-32, 81

Pittsburgh Plate Glass Company, 235,
260, 263

Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 68, 82-83

Pittsburgh Press: on bossism, 106;
Democratic bias of, 33, 60-61, 64,- in
election of 1931, 41-42; and fraud
trials of 1938-39, 140, 146; and Mc-
Nair, 117; and redbaiting of 1950s,
283-84; and wage tax, 289

Pittsburgh Regional Planning Associa-
tion, 204-06, 233, 240, 243, 258, 266

Index l> 437

Pittsburgh Renaissance: and business
interests, 233-54; and Civic Arena,
266-76; inauguration of, 214, 228-37;
and industrial development, 263-66;
legislative maneuvering for, 233-54,-
and Lower Hill project, 266-76; na-
tional fame of, 259-61; and news
media, 82-83, 258-59; and Point State
Park, 211, 214, 243-44, 255; program
of, 194-96; realization of, 255-76; roots
of, 17-18; social concerns of, 276. See
also Air pollution control; Allegheny
Conference on Community Develop-
ment; URA

Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph, 125

Pittsburgh Survey (1907-13), 198

Pittsburgh Zionist Emergency Council,
290

Plessett, Rosemary, 166, 176

Point State Park, 211, 214, 243-44, 255

Police, Pittsburgh, 293-309, 314, 343,
421nn12, 15, 16

President's Committee on Equal Oppor-
tunity in Housing, 369, 375

Price, Gwilym, 223, 260

Priddy, Alice, 147, 150

Private Housing Incorporated, 272

Progressive Era, 17-18

Prohibition, 23, 34, 52, 54

Project 70, 355

Public Assistance, Department of, 122

Public Utilities Commission, Pennsyl-
vania, 122, 416n18

Quay, Matthew, 24
Quinlan, George, 299

Race relations. See Blacks

Rahauser, William, 284, 296-98, 311-12
Railroad Brotherhood, 251

Randall, David, 340

Rayburn, Sam, 362, 369

Ream, M. Iay, 244

Reapportionment, 123

Reed, David A., 51, 95-97, 101

Reese, Leslie, 234

Regional Industrial Development Cor-

poration, 204
Reizenstein, Florence, 291
Republican party: corruption of, 14-21,

438 <1

Index

Republican party (cont.)
66,- decline in 1930s of, 37, 45-64;
early power of, 13-17, 30, 33; in elec-
tion of 1931, 38-46; of 1933, 57-58, 60,
63; and fraud trials of 1938-39, 140-44,-
fundraising for, 4031143; hostility of,
during Earle administration, 110,- in-
temal conflicts in, 39-44, 51, 54, 57-
58, 60, 63, 95, 209; intimidation tac-
tics of, 52; and Lawrence, 38-39, 43;
and Pittsburgh Renaissance, 240-43;
resurgence in 1940s of, 182, 188; state
committee of, 100; and vote fraud,
58; and voter registration, 30, 33

Retail Merchants Association, 280

Rice, Charles Owen, 220, 224, 282,
388

Rice, Iohn S., 226

Richards, Wallace K., 204-07, 233-37,
241-43, 255-58

Rickey, Branch, 282

Ripper bill (1935), 111, 116-18

Roberts, David, 177, 188, 191, 194, 289,
362, 379, 427n6

Roberts, Warren, 152

Robin, Iohn P.: as aide to Lawrence, 83,
I76, 217, 219-23, 225, 230-35, 247; and
election of 1949, 250; of 1958, 341,- and
Pittsburgh Renaissance, 255, 264-65,
270-73; as speechwriter, 193; as state
secretary of commerce, 229; and
URA, 257, 261-62, 417n6

Rockwell, Willard, 389

Rooney, Art, 24, 81, 159

Roosevelt, Franklin D.: as campaigner
in Pittsburgh, 127-28; in election of
1932, 53‘54; Of 1940, 417-112; Of 1944,
183-87; Lawrence's support for, 36,
47-55; and Pennsylvania Democratic
party, 98, 101, 119-20; Pittsburgh vote
for, 46. See also Little New Deal;
New Deal

Roosevelt, Franklin D., IL, 337

Roosevelt, Iames, 333

Roosevelt administration, 65-72, 216

Rosenberg, Louis, 303

Ross, F. Clair, 187, 280-82

Roth, Alice, 283-84

Russell, Richard, 336

Ryan, Tice V., 254, 301

Sales tax, Pennsylvania, 344, 351-53, 357
Salk, Mrs. Ionas, 282

Sawyer, Roland M., 426n7

Saxe, Natalie, 341, 423n15

Scaife, Alan, 218

Schaeffer, Iudge, 139-40, 145
Schlesinger, Hyman, 285

Schmidt, Adolph, 206, 237, 259-61, 339
Schnaeder, Ralph, 115

Schnaeder, William, 96-97, 99, 101
Schope, Edgar, 4o9n29

Schulten, Walter, 245

Schwab, Charles, 198

Schwulst, Earl, 426n7

Scott, Harry, 97

Scott, Harvey, 295, 298-303, 306

Scott, Hugh, 345, 378-79, 389
Scranton, William, 170, 366, 385, 389
Sculley, Cornelius: and city council,

127; and McNair, 87, 115; as mayor, 70,
74/ 188-91; I941 2'O2"O3/ 2'09; 2'32’: 2'94

Shadyside Citizens’ Committee, 305
Shannon, E. A., 138

Shannon, William, 95-97

Shapiro, Harry, 112

Shapp, Milton, 361-62, 380-86, 427n26
Shelley, Carl, 135, 137-44, 212

Sigal, Meyer, 308

Skok, Iames P., 145

Slusser, Iames, 306-08

Smith; Alfred; 34"'36r 48/ 50/ 

Smith, Frank, 379

Smith, Mrs. R. Templeton, 87, 89, 289,

303, 308, 310-11

Smith, Ralph, 87, 180

Smith, William, 31-32, 153

Smoke pollution. See Air pollution
Snyder, Iohn W., 238

Sofiel, Sara M., 306, 312

Splain, Maurice, 423n15

Sprigle, Ray, 82, 177, 294, 303-05, 4211118
Square Deal party, 38, 41

Staisey, Leonard, 32, 427n26

Stassen, Harold, 342-43

Steamfitters and Helpers Union, 44
Steel industry, 197-98

Stern, I. David, 159

Stevenson, Adlai, 78, 172, 334-38, 358-64
Stewart, N. Denning, 311

Stewart, William, 257-58

Strikes, 216-27

Sullivan, William, 300
Sultzberger, Cyrus L., 46
Symes, Iames, 425n23
Symington, Stuart, 359-64

Tammany machine, 48

Tate, Iames, 389, 428n4

Tax Advisory Committee (Hood-Kennedy
committee), 348-52, 425n23

Taxation: on amusement enterprises,
347,- in election of I958, 343-44, 351-
53, 357, 366; on income, proposed, 123,-
Lawrence’s call for reform of, I71, 195,-
on retail sales, 344, 351-53, 357; on
wages, 286-90, 292

Taylor, Frank, 153, 154

Taylor, Harvey, 112, 114, 428n4

Temple, H. H., 146-49

Thomas, Evan, 116

Thompson, Dale, 427n19

T oole, Steve, 10

Toole, Tommy, 38

Tou, Sidney, 149

Townley, Iohn, 82

Tronzo, Al, 83, 104, 117-18, 248, 275, 377

Truman, Harry, 184-87, 221, 224, 251-52,
291, 330—33, 336, 339

Truman, Margaret, 331

Turner, Elwood, 143, 4o9n29

Turner, Viola, 79

Udall, Stewart, 428n4

Unemployment, 46-47, 49, 106-07, 198

Unions. See Labor unions

United Electrical Workers, 282, 383

United Iewish Appeal, 291

United Mine Workers, 91-92, 246, 250,
282

United Steel Workers, 252, 282

URA (Urban Redevelopment Authority
of Pittsburgh), 256-66, 270-75, 280,
232, 357, 377, 41711114, 5

U.S. Conference of Mayors, 239, 315, 369

U.S. Congress, 238-39

U.S. Housing Commission, 375

U.S. Steel Corporation, 203, 242

Van Buskirk, Arthur, 206, 233, 237-38,
244, 255-62, 346

Index [> 439

Vandervort, Robert, 75

Van Dyke, Warren, 48, 67, 90, 93, 129,
I54

Varml Robert; 49-501 537 59/ 67/ 98/
4021126

Vare, William, 51, 95

Verona, Iohn, 146-49

Veterans administration, 370, 372

Voter registration: corruption in, 37, 40,
57-58; Democratic advantage in, 119,
208, 366,- and fraud trials of 1938-39,
141,- Lawrence's effort to refonn, 19-21,
30, 168; made permanent in 1937, 123;
and patronage jobs, 73

Voter Registration Commission (Pitts-
burgh), 19-21, 26, 30

Voters’ League of Pittsburgh, 15, 204

Waddell, Robert, 207-12, 224

Wage tax, Pittsburgh, 286-90, 292, 343
Wagner, Harold, 226

Wagner Act, 168

Walker, Iimmy, 125

Walker, Iohn, 240-41, 246

Wallace, Henry, 183-86

Watson, Marvin, 428n4

Weaver, Robert, 373

Weidlein, Edward, 268

Weil, Leo, 16

Weiner, Charles, 351, 4231126
Weinstein, Louis, 375, 426n7

Weir, Fred, 58-59, 60, 75, 287

Weiss, Samuel A., 285

Wertz, Bill, 363

Western Pennsylvania Conference on

Air Pollution, 245
Westinghouse Air Brake Company, 235
Westinghouse Electric Corporation, 203,
223, 235, 260, 282

White, Lee, 373, 376

White, Theodore, 359

White House Commission on Aging,

354
White House Conference on Civil
Rights, 375, 376

Williams, Iake, 70-73

Williams, Pappy, 72, 306

Williams, Robert E., 414n16

Willkie, Wendell, 412122

Wilson, Iohn, 186

440 <1 Index

Wilson, S. Davis, 136

Wilson, Woodrow, 18, I9

Wolk, A. L., 246

Women, 30, 114, 122, 168

Wood, Leonard, 328

Working class. See Ethnic voters; Labor

unions

Workingmen’s Compensation Act, 122
World War I, 21

World War H, 196, 203, 244
Worthington, Leslie B., 389
WPA (Works Progress Administration),
67-69, 125-26, 128, 4o4nIo
Wright, Iohn, 389

Young Democrats, 16 9

Zimmerman, George, 66

24 <1 Don't call me boss

held an interest in a local Pittsburgh beer distributing company, but
the investments remained modest. From 196 3 through 196 5, for exam-
ple, Lawrence received less than $2,200 per year in stock income.4
Other funds he invested were always in municipal bonds.

The Harris-Lawrence Insurance Agency and the other investments
provided Lawrence with a modest income, but they never sparked
his interest. The details of running a business bored him, and he pre-
ferred to delegate this authority to others. His friend and political
ally Iimmy Kirk ran the day-to-day operations of the firm during the
late 1920s, and later, when Kirk assumed administrative positions in
the Pittsburgh city government, a full-time manager was hired. Law-
rence, except for a four-year interim from 193 5 through 1939, when he
held the post of secretary of the commonwealth in the administra-
tion of Governor Earle, retained the title of president of the company,
but he seldom became actively involved. Only in politics did the minu-
tiae hold his interest. The business interests, however uninteresting,
provided a financial cushion and a freedom to enjoy sporting events,
begin a family, and engage in his true love, politics.

Lawrence had only a few close relationships, all of which were
formed during his younger years. He seemed to enjoy most those
whose interest in sports matched his own or those who could offer
a momentary respite from the rigors of political or governmental life.
As teenagers Lawrence and Art Rooney, who would later own the
Pittsburgh Steelers, struck up a friendship based upon their mutual
interest in football, baseball, and boxing. It was Rooney who intro-
duced Lawrence to another sports passion, horse racing. Beginning
in the middle thirties and continuing until he became governor, Law-
rence, Rooney, and a number of others would travel to events such
as the Kentucky Derby, the prizefights in New York, and Steeler foot-
ball games. Rooney, also a Republican, later recalled that they would
occasionally discuss politics and personal concerns, but mostly it was
sporting events or card playing that occupied them. ”He relaxed more
at sporting events than at any other place I have ever seen him.” In
1938, when Rooney ran for the position of register of wills on the Re-
publican ticket, it was Democratic chairman Lawrence who fre-
quently accompanied him to political rallies. Even on those trips,
other than advising him not to run because he was sure to lose, Law-
rence’s discussion with Rooney focused mainly on athletics.5

It is not surprising that most of Lawrence's early friends were Re-
publican since nearly everyone in Pittsburgh claimed allegiance to
the Grand Old Party. One of his closest friendships, however, later
proved to be a source of political embarrassment. Shortly after his

BIO

Don ’t call me boss

DAVID L. LAWRENCE.
Pittsburgh’s Renaissance Mayor

Michael P. Weber

Pittsburgh Series in Social and Labor History

The death of David Leo Lawrence in 1966 ended a fifty—year career of major
influence in American politics. in a front—page obituary, the New York Times
noted that Lawrence, the longtime mayor of Pittsburgh, governor of Pennsylva-
nia, and a power in Democratic national politics, disliked being called Boss. But,
the Times noted, “he was one anyway.”

Born in a poor. working-class neighborhood, in the present-day Golden
Triangle of Pittsburgh, he was from boyhood an astute student of politics and a
devoted Democrat. Yet when he became mayor at the close of World War ll, he
formed an alliance with the predominantly Republican business community to
bring about the much acclaimed Pittsburgh Renaissance, transforming the
downtown business district and persuading many large corporations to retain
their national headquarters in Pittsburgh.

Don ’t Call Me Boss examines the lengthy career of this remarkable politician.
Using over one hundred interviews, as well as extensive archival material,
Michael Weber demonstrates how Lawrence was able to balance his intense
political drive and devotion to the Democratic party with the larger needs of his
city and state. Although his administration was not free of controversy, as
indicated by the city's police and free work scandals, Lawrence showed that it
was possible to make the transition from nineteenth-century political boss to
modern municipal manager. More than twenty years after his death, David L.
Lawrence and his success in rebuilding the city of Pittsburgh continue to serve as
an example of effective urban leadership.

Michael P. Weber is Dean of the Graduate School of Liberal Arts and Sciences
and Professor of Urban History at Duquesne University.

UNIVERSITY OF PITTSBURGH PRESS
Pittsburgh. Pa. 15260

ISBN III-HEB“!-53”]?-Ea

9 780822 953975

Jnoq.ieg 1o6J2w liq ufigsep Ja/log aoueuog aew euuv Kseunoo oqoud

Friends, Family, and Work [> 25

return from service in World War I, Lawrence met his Republican
counterpart in Allegheny County, Iimmy Coyne.

Coyne, a large red-faced Irishman with an affinity for huge cigars,
was a perfect fit for the stereotypical image of the political boss. Ag-
gressive, hungry for power, and generally considered to be corrupt,
Coyne was nevertheless easy to like. One of sixteen children, Coyne
came to Pittsburgh from Galway in 19oo at the age of sixteen. He
worked at several mills in the Lawrenceville section of the city and
on construction gangs. His political interest began when he became
foreman, then superintendent of Booth—Flinn Construction Company.
With financial help from William Flinn, the Republican boss, Coyne
opened a saloon on Bates Street in the Oakland area and later entered
the wholesale liquor business.

Coyne used his saloon as a center for his political activities, be-
coming chairman of the Fourth Ward. Following the pattern of the
nineteenth-century ward leaders, he could always be counted upon
to provide a favor to a ”deserving” local resident. The big, fun-loving
Oaklander’s reputation spread, and he soon developed a following
among ward leaders in the Strip District and on the North Side of
the city. Following World War I, Coyne joined forces with Ioe Grundy
and William Larimer Mellon, Republican powers in the state.6

The Coyne-Lawrence relationship began around 1924. The two
men shared an ethnic and religious heritage, an interest in sports, and,
of course, a love of politics. "T here was a very close relationship there,”
Lawrence's daughter recalled. "The first year my parents were mar-
ried, they bought twenty-one acres of land from Iimmy Coyne out
on Babcock Boulevard. They had a house and a barn and we spent
our summers there. Iimmy Coyne had a farm down in the back of
us so that we spent a lot of time with the Coynes. . . . They became
very close associates/'7 Coyne later became a small investor in the
Harris-Lawrence Insurance Agency. In 1933, when, for political rea-
sons, Lawrence was forced to dissociate himself from Coyne, their
friendship remained intact in spite of Lawrence's blistering attacks.
Both men seemed to understand that political expediency demanded
the separation.

Lawrence's only other close friendship grew from a teacher-student
relationship into one of coequals. Lawrence first met Jimmy Kirk
when, still a teenager himself, he hired Kirk to work as a clerk in
the Brennen law offices. Several years younger than Lawrence, Kirk
came from an identical Irish Catholic background. Born and raised
at the Point, he attended St. Mary's, trained in stenography, and began
his career at Brennen’s. Later, he replaced Lawrence as stenographer

Don’t call me boss

26 <l Don’t call me boss

on the registration commission when the latter became minority com-
missioner. In October 1918, Kirk and Lawrence joined the army to-
gether, and later, on I4 Iune I924, they simultaneously resigned from
the Voter Registration Commission to devote more time to the presi-
dential election.8

Kirk, a quiet, soft-spoken man whose personality contrasted dra-
matically with that of Coyne, became Lawrence's closest friend and
aide. Andrew Bradley, Lawrence's liaison with the black community
in Pittsburgh, had many dealings with Kirk. ”If they [the black leader-
ship] wanted me to accomplish something and I knew that the mayor
was busy, I could talk to Jimmy Kirk. . . . I always felt that there was
no living person at that time in whom the mayor had greater confi-
dence.” In 1945, prior to accepting the candidacy for mayor of Pitts-
burgh, Lawrence supported his friend and business and political as-
sociate, but at a caucus the other Democratic leaders objected. They
”said Iimmy was a cold fish,” Lawrence recalled, ”and you couldn't
sell him to anyone and we are going to lose the mayoralty. I would
have liked to run Iimmy because he would have been the best [mayor]
we ever had but he was that kind of person/'9

Kirk was probably Lawrence's best source of political advice after
both left the tutelage of William Brennen. Some suggested that Kirk
was intellectually superior to Lawrence and was the driving force be-
hind Lawrence's success, but there seems to be little substance to the
charge. Kirk, of course, willingly ran the insurance office, freeing his
friend to engage in political matters, and served as an important po-
litical aide. Their relationship, however, appears to have been based
on strong friendship and mutual respect. When Kirk died prematurely
during the first Lawrence administration, he left an unfillable void
in the mayor's life. Each Christmas thereafter, following dinner, the
Lawrence family would place wreaths on Kirk's grave, as well as those
of David's parents, his grandparents, several children, his brother, and
Iudge Primo Columbus — another of his friends. The ritual continued
until his last Christmas in 196 5.

With the exception of Rooney, Coyne, and Kirk, few of Lawrence's
nonpolitical associates were his intellectual or social equals. Begin-
ning sometime during the early 1930s, he began to develop a coterie
of friends whose main role was to indulge his passion for card play-
ing. Some were given important roles in the party organization; Primo
Columbus became a judge, and Charles Dinan sat on the city coun-
cil. Dan Parish, owner of the Allegheny Asphalt and Paving Com-
pany, was a regular party contributor and became the subject of much
controversy during Lawrence's four terms as mayor. Most, however,

Friends, Family, and Work [> 27

worked in ward-level politics and held city jobs. One was an atten-
dant at the Monongahela Wharf parking lot. Each evening around five
or five-thirty, some members of this unlikely group would assemble
at Democratic headquarters or at the mayor's office for an hour or
so of pinochle or gin rummy. Frank ”Bangy” Ambrose was a frequent
companion on these occasions. ”W e became fast friends playing pi-
nochle at a quarter a game. I'll never forget the first time I played him,
I beat him the first two games, and I didn't want the half dollar. He
said, ‘When you play me, when I lose I pay, and when you lose you
pay.’ So that's the way it was from then on.” The game apparently
relaxed Lawrence, but it was not played without intensity and an op-
ponent whose mind wandered would be reprimanded. Walter Giesey,
one of Lawrence's executive secretaries, usually observed the play as
he was preparing papers for Lawrence's signature at the end of the
day. ”There was almost nothing of substance ever said during these
games. He played pinochle with people who were certainly not his
intellectual or political peers. But it was important for him to relax
in this way.” When Lawrence moved to Harrisburg as governor and
most of his card-playing friends were left behind in Pittsburgh, he
attempted to make up for lost time on weekend trips to the city. Am-
brose or one of the others was expected to spend part of Saturday and
often Sunday at the pinochle table at Democratic headquarters.”

V

Of course, young Dave Lawrence did not spend all of his leisure
time playing cards with political cronies or attending sporting events.
Little is known about his early relationships with women except that
he occasionally took dates to vaudeville shows on Pittsburgh's North
Side, where he sometimes played the piano on amateur night. He later
told his son Ierry that he dated a Ziegfeld Girl who ”danced in the
old Ziegfeld shows back in the twenties/'11 He enjoyed dancing and
frequented the several dance halls in the city. It was probably at the
North Side Social Hall that he met Alyce Golden in the fall of 192.0.
Alyce, seven years younger than Lawrence, was the seventh child of
Irish immigrants Iohn and Anna Golden.” Iohn, a North Side liquor
dealer, died in 1901, leaving nine children all under the age of seven-
teen. Arma maintained the business and cared for her children until
her death in I917. Recollections of young Alyce are vague but it ap-
pears that she was bright and hardworking, yet quite shy. Unlike her
new beau, who by 1920 was widely recognized throughout the city,
she shunned publicity and never became comfortable in large crowds
or as the focus of attention. She did, however, enjoy her childhood

28 <1 Don't call me boss

in a home filled with siblings, and later she sought in her own home
the constant companionship normal in a large family. That her pub-
lic husband could not supply such company was a source of diffi-
culty throughout their married life.

Early photographs of Alyce Golden reveal a tall, striking, dark-
haired woman whose facial features were set off by high cheekbones.
Her thin, almost boyish figure suited the fashion of the ”flapper age,”
and it is easy to understand Lawrence's attraction to her. Moreover,
she was Irish and Catholic, she enjoyed dancing, and her family sup-
ported the Democratic party. Their courtship lasted approximately
seven months, and on 18 Iune 1921, Lawrence turned his back on the
marital advice of his old mentor, William Brennen.

Following a brief honeymoon, the Lawrences returned to set up
housekeeping in a middle-class neighborhood in the city's East End.
On 18 Iune 1922 the couple had their first child, Mary, named after
David's older sister, who had died suddenly in 1907. On 15 Septem-
ber 1923 a second daughter, Anna Mac, was born. She was followed
by three brothers, William Brennen, David Leo, and Gerald (Ierry).
Two children born between David Ir. and Ierry died at birth. The Law-
rence family also grew through the addition of several outsiders.
Shortly after the birth of the second child, Alyce, with no dissent
from her husband, invited her sister Helen to move in to help care
for the children. Helen remained part of the Lawrence family for
over four decades. From time to time other relatives also lived in
the Lawrence household—Alyce’s single and widowed sisters and or-
phaned and abandoned nephews. At one point, Anna Mac was forced
to share a twin bed with her aunt because there were not enough
beds in the house.”

The one individual frequently missing was David. Both Anna Mae
and Ierry recall the family as being a close one, but their memories
of their father's absences are strikingly vivid. Following a practice es-
tablished during his years with Billy Brennen, he devoted most of his
waking hours to his work and the political party. During the 1930s,
when he was the state Democratic chairman and secretary of the
Commonwealth, Arma Mae recalled, ”I didn't see very much of him
because in that period of time . . . he was never home. He'd leave on
Monday morning [for Harrisburg] and he would come back on Friday
night.” Parts of those weekends were spent at the city Democratic
headquarters, and at least a few hours were reserved for card playing,
rubdowns at the YMCA, and often attending sports events. Later,
when he became mayor, his time at home continued to be extremely
limited, as Ierry explained. “His normal day—well, at the time he was

Friends, Family, and Work [> 29

mayor, in that period he would leave home around 9: 30 in the mom-
ing and would be gone all day and never really get back until around
7 at night and have dinner. Of course many nights he was out. . . . In
fact . . . the old William Penn . . . would keep track of his menu be-
cause he would eat there three or four times a week/'14

Even when he was home, much of his time was spent in private
activities. Both children remembered his household routine chang-
ing little over three decades. After dinner their father would play some-
one at checkers or dominoes, games that he loved. Usually at about
nine he would go upstairs, and always had a book on his night table.
He read a great deal of history, particularly Irish history. He was also
an avid radio listener, favoring Jack Benny, Charlie McCarthy, and
Fibber Magee and Molly. He would be in bed with his light off by
eleven o’clock.15

Lawrence was apparently devoted to and solicitous of the needs
of his children and his wife. He and Alyce attended dances and sport-
ing events and went out to dinner whenever his schedule permitted.
Friday nights were reserved for family gatherings at the South Aiken
Avenue house, and on other nights, when he was home, he refused
to accept calls, rarely made any, and almost never entertained politi-
cal associates. Like most women of the era, Alyce was not expected
to participate in the political activities of her husband, and her own
personality would have prevented it in any case. ”She was afraid of
a lot of the notoriety and the glory that went with it, which was
something that he never brought home. He led two very distinct lives ,
he had a public life and a private life/'16 Alyce was left behind while
her husband carried out the public phase of his life.

But certainly, upon their marriage, she did not expect to live her
life alone or bear the full burden of raising five children, and Law-
rence, in his own way, understood her dilemma. He not only toler-
ated but encouraged the inclusion of Alyce’s relatives in the family
home. It appears that he was well aware of the effect of his absences
on his family and often sought to compensate. By filling the home
with people whom Alyce loved and assisting them when necessary,
he, in his own mind, signaled his devotion to her. The surrogate fam-
ily would provide company and affection during his absences.

V

Lawrence's own life, meanwhile, was increasingly filled with his
work and his political activities. In 1920 he attended his third Demo-
cratic National Convention as an aide to the Allegheny County Demo-
cratic chairman, Ioe Gufiey. As at the two previous conventions, he

30 <1 Don’t call me boss

played no role, but his relationship with Guffey once again proved
to be fortunate. Gufiey chaired the Pennsylvania delegation and acted
as floor manager for A. Mitchell Palmer. Palmer repaid Guf'fey’s loy-
alty by engineering a position as Democratic national committee-
man from Pennsylvania. Guffey, in turn, tapped Lawrence to replace
him as Allegheny County Democratic chairman. Lawrence now had
a base from which to work. By no stretch of the imagination could
it be considered one of power, but it did permit him to handpick the
men for positions to which the minority party was legally entitled.
His next twelve years would be spent trying to create a party follow-
ing where none existed.

Pittsburgh politics during the 1920s continued to be dominated
by a decaying Republican machine challenged at each election by a
group of independent Republicans who tried one coalition after an-
other to unseat the entrenched bosses. The Democrats, hopelessly
outnumbered, remained far to the rear of the two main contending
groups in each municipal election. Lawrence, for his part, ofiered no
comprehensive plan to build the party but attacked aimlessly in what-
ever direction suited the moment. In lune 1920, for example, in his
first public statement, he championed the cause of woman suffrage
and challenged the state's attorney general to extend the female vote
to all state and municipal offices should the national suffrage amend-
ment be ratified.” But he failed to capitalize on his stand by recruit-
ing any substantial number of women into the party once the amend-
ment passed. It was not until the mid 1930s that a female wing of the
Democratic party was formed in the county. In I924, taking advan-
tage of his position on the Registration Commission, he initiated a
drive to increase voter registrations. The plan unfortunately back-
fired, for Republican registrations increased by nearly 6,000 while the
Democrats gained only 1,120 voters.” In another instance of missed
opportunities, two small ethnic Democratic clubs were formed be-
fore the 1924 national election, but Lawrence was unable to incorpo-
rate them into the regular party organization. Both groups disbanded
immediately after the election.

Lawrence and Kirk canvased the city before each municipal elec-
tion in search of Democratic workers, but with little success. In 1921
and 192 5, for example, the party was unable to supply poll watchers
at each of the polling locations. Not surprisingly, the campaigns them-
selves were anemic affairs, with the center of attention being the con-
tinued squabbles among the Republicans. In 1921 the Pittsburgh Press
noted a lack of interest in the mayoral and city council races. “T he
apathy which has been in evidence, if carried into the voting booth,

Friends, Family, and Work l> 31

would not be healthy for the community/'19 The fears proved accu-
rate: nearly 30,000 fewer voters turned out for the general election
than had cast ballots in the primary. The Republican candidate, Wil-
liam Magee, defeated William McNair by a margin greater than two
to one.

The I92 5 election produced a bit more excitement but was clearly
overshadowed by Robert Iones’s victory in the U.S. Open Golf Cham-
pionship, held at nearby Oakmont Country Club, the Pittsburgh Pi-
rates’ defeat of the Washington Senators in the World Series, and the
court-martial of Captain Billy Mitchell. All three events pushed the
election off the front pages of Pittsburgh's newspapers. The Repub-
licans, as usual, continued to maul one another, although with less
publicity than was customary. The machine, controlled by state sena-
tors Max Leslie and Iames Coyne, and financier William Larimer
Mellon, eventually settled on Iudge Charles Kline to succeed Mayor
William Magee. A so-called fusion group consisting of Republicans
and independents challenged the Kline domination, offering William
Smith, principal of Allegheny High School, as its candidate in the
Republican primary. Lawrence and a Democratic executive commit-
tee appointed by him nominated Carmen Iohnson, a teacher at West-
inghouse High School.

While there were few attractive alternatives available, the selec-
tion of Iohnson illustrates a weakness that would haunt Lawrence
all through his political career: an inability to select strong, capable
candidates. The slow-talking science teacher had worked for the party
in the East End but was virtually unknown in the rest of the city,
and he generated almost no enthusiasm during the campaign. Law-
rence, usually in the hope of preventing a primary battle, repeatedly
agreed to accept a candidate who was least objectionable to all within
the party hierarchy. The result was often the selection of a candidate
who had done nothing to create political enemies but who also showed
little leadership potential. Although the campaign of 1925 ‘was not
among them, several important political opportunities were lost be-
cause of Lawrence's inability to select strong candidates.

Operating as usual in the shadow of the Republican furor, the
Democrats attracted attention only when the fusion group charged
that they were acting in collusion with the Republican majority. The
slim chance Iohnson had of attracting a following ended early in Oc-
tober. Pittsburgh's first World Series since 1909 brought on a frenzy
that pushed all political activity far into the background. The Pirates,
down three games to one, won three straight games, the last two
played in Pittsburgh, to defeat the Senators. Game seven, featuring

32 <1 Don't call me boss

Washington superstar Walter Iohnson against Rube Oldham, more-
over, was postponed because of rain, increasing the suspense. Press
coverage, with articles written by Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb, Walter Iohn-
son, Honus Wagner, and others, not surprisingly completely elimi-
nated any concern about the election. By the time the city's excite-
ment abated, the election for all purposes had been decided. The
Republican, Kline, received 76,000 votes to 12,859 for the independent,
Smith. Fewer than 5,000 voters supported Carmen Iohnson. Demo-
crat Thomas Hester’s victory for the minority position on the jury
commission was explained by the press as another example of the
Democrats’ subservience to the Republican machine?“

Stung by continual charges of bossism within his own party and
of bowing to the wishes of the Republican machine, Lawrence turned
to a different tactic in the 1929 elections. Ignoring his own executive
committee, he appointed a ”citizens’ committee” of one hundred to
select a candidate for mayor. The committee, chaired by a former
U.S. district attorney, demonstrated the persisting ineptness of the
Democratic party when it turned to Thomas Dunn, a registered Re-
publican and chairman of the Pittsburgh Chamber of Commerce, for
its candidate. Dunn accepted the nomination but, showing his own
political wisdom, attempted to disguise his new party affiliation by
running as the ”Good Government” candidate.“

The Republicans unwittingly aided Dunn by continuing their
decades-old war. Mayor Kline, by announcing his intention to stand
for reelection, rejected an unwritten edict by William L. Mellon that
no mayor could succeed himself. The Mellon-Coyne faction of the
party then turned to the city council president, Iames Malone, while
the independent Republicans backed Iudge E. W. Martin. The three
waged a heated battle throughout the summer of 192.9, obscuring the
efforts of the Democratic candidate, Dunn. Nearly I75,ooo Republi-
cans voted in the primary, with the plurality going to Kline. In the
Democratic primary Dunn received 3, 3oo votes. The election for all
purposes was over. Dunn's only hope was his dual candidacy, and in-
deed he did attract a considerable number of votes from disgruntled
Republicans, including County Commissioner Charles “Buck” Mc-
Govern. Lawrence's old boss on the Voter Registration Commission,
expressed the mood most eloquently. ”Personally I am a Republican,”
he announced on radio station KQV. ”I will, however, vote for Mr.
Dunn on the Good Government Ticket as I want to remain one of
the 96,000 voters who protested at the primaries against the elec-
tion of thieves, racketeers and hangers-on who have dominated Pitts-
burgh’s city government for the last four years.”22

Friends, Family, and Work [> 33

The support of the independents, however, fell far short, and Kline
overwhelmed Dunn in the general election 8o,ooo votes to 37,000,
winning twenty-eight of thirty wards. The Democrats had run an-
other listless campaign whose only high note was the announcement
by Lawrence that the party had secured enough volunteers to act as
poll watchers at all the county's polling places.

That Lawrence's first decade as Allegheny County Democratic
chairman was a dismal failure is evident from the city election returns ;
results from the county and state races, moreover, were similar. Party
registration figures during the period are a further indication of his
failure. In 1920, when Lawrence assumed his position, 9 5,000 voters
registered as Republican and 12,568 as Democrats; five years later II,OOO
additional persons joined the GOP, while the Democratic enrollment
slipped to 6,430; in 192.9 the comparable figures were 169,000 and 5,200
respectively.”

The impotence of the Democratic party under Lawrence was, of
course, not new. Democrats had suffered an identical fate in Alle-
gheny County for more than fifty years. The attacks from within,
however, were increasing. Democrats began calling, both privately
and publicly, for his resignation. In the midst of the election debacle
of I92 5, Lawrence was accused of collaborating with Republicans to
guarantee control of all legally entitled minority positions. Several
years later a group of prominent Democrats publicly demanded the
resignation of this entire Democratic leadership. The Pittsburgh Press,
the major critic of the Republican machine, concluding that Lawrence
was unable or unwilling to lead the attack on the entrenched orga-
nization, criticized him at every opportunity: "T he Democratic leader-
ship . . . has lacked virility and courage, and its onslaughts on the
‘recognized political boss’ [William L. Mellon] have consisted largely
of shadow boxing. It has been content, almost eagerly complacent,
to accept whatever crumbs of minority representation could be se-
cured through a policy of passivity.”24 Perhaps worse, the city's other
two newspapers ignored him.

Two factors saved Lawrence from expulsion as party chairman.
First, and perhaps most important, no one else appeared to want the
position. Lawrence genuinely enjoyed the challenge of running the
party and competing in elections. He was willing to spend great
amounts of time and energy and some of his own money. Whether
he actually believed that his party would ever succeed is doubtful.
His preelection speeches, of course, brimmed with confidence, but
one may dismiss those as campaign rhetoric. He had been involved
in a futile pursuit of the Republicans for a quarter of a century and

34 <1 Don't call me boss

was realistic enough to understand that, barring some unforeseen
catalytic event, his chances of prevailing remained almost nil. Oth-
ers could also see the difficulty of the challenge and, while they
might criticize him, were unwilling to volunteer themselves as re-
placements.

Second, Lawrence's liaison with Ioe Gufiey, now a Pennsylvania
national comrnitteeman, strengthened his position in the state Demo-
cratic hierarchy. In 1924 he accompanied Guffey to the Democratic
National Convention at Madison Square Garden. Lawrence's first con-
vention as a delegate, the most chaotic in the history of the Demo-
cratic party, lasted 17 days and required I03 ballots to select Iohn W.
Davis, a New York lawyer, as its candidate. As the convention dragged
on, the ranks of the Pennsylvania delegation began to thin as one
delegate after another depleted his financial resources and returned
home. Lawrence, a strong supporter of the Tammany candidate, Al-
fred E. Smith, organized a pool of rooms to conserve delegate funds
and prevent dissolution of the Pennsylvania support for Smith.25 His
decisive action stopped the exodus, and the majority of the Pennsyl-
vania delegation, including Guffey and Lawrence, remained with
Smith through all the ballots.

Lawrence left the 1924 convention convinced the Democrats had
little chance of victory. We were in great shape to win. But we were
manipulated to get into this terrible religious brawl . . . and we wind
up, instead of— either one of the candidates was a good man, Bill Mac-
Adoo was terrific but they got the Ku Klux Klan tied on to him be-
cause the South was supporting him, because Smith was Catholic.
And of course we wind up—of all things—we nominated Pierpont
Morgan's chief lawyer, Iohn W. Davis. It was just ludicrous.”-°-6

The fall campaign probably reflected Lawrence's lack of support
for Davis. The Pittsburgh Press, noting the party's lackluster effort,
suggested that it was near collapse. Not surprisingly, Davis ran third,
behind Coolidge and the Progressive candidate, La Follette, in all but
two of sixty-two boroughs and townships in the county and in all
of the city's twenty-eight wards. He captured only 8 percent of the
total votes cast.”

The disastrous election results convinced Lawrence of the wis-
dom of his support of Smith. Three months before the 1928 Demo-
cratic National Convention in Houston, Texas, Lawrence called for
his nomination. ‘He is the only candidate that can defeat the reac-
tionary leadership now controlling the country.’’23 Smith won the
Pennsylvania Democratic primary, as he had done in 1924, and the
Pennsylvania delegation traveled to Houston solidly in support of
the four-term New York governor, who won easily on the first ballot.

Friends, Family, and Work l> 35

Lawrence and Smith held similar positions on a number of issues,
including support for regulation of utilities, the rights of organized
labor, and repeal of Prohibition. Lawrence also expressed admiration
for Smith's reform of the government of the state of New York. Equally
important was an emotional attachment that temporarily blinded
Lawrence to Smith's political liabilities. The ”Happy Warrior” was a
carbon copy of Lawrence's tutor, Brennen, and of Lawrence himself.
A product of New York's Lower East Side Irish ghetto and of the city
Democratic machine, he had risen to the height of power in his state.
A Catholic, he was living evidence that religion need not be a bar
to political success. It is unlikely that Lawrence, at this time, har-
bored any great political aspirations for himself, but, as he often noted
later, he viewed Smith as the embodiment of the American dream.

Lawrence's campaign efforts in behalf of Smith were more evi-
dent than in any previous election. He worked vigorously for the
Pennsylvania senatorial candidate, William McNair, but was most
concerned with the presidential election. He spoke almost nightly
from September through 5 November at political rallies all over the
county. The rhetoric of his addresses, unfortunately, is lost because
the city's papers continued their policy of reporting at length on Re-
publican events but announcing Democratic affairs only after the
fact. The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette did comment that Democratic ral-
lies had grown larger, suggesting the development of a Smith follow-
ing as election day drew near. A standing-room-only crowd attended
the traditional conclusion of the campaign, held at the Carnegie
Music Hall on the North Side. Lawrence announced that, for the
first time in recent memory, ”enough persons have volunteered to
act as watchers to enable the party to have watchers at every one of
the more than 1,400 districts in the county.” Campaign funds must
also have been available, for he also announced that he had hired the
Burns Detective Agency for duty at Democratic headquarters to an-
swer calls from the watchers regarding vote tampering by Republi-
cans, and that he had retained a lawyer ”ready to go to court when
any trouble occurs/'29

Poll watchers and funds, of course, while perhaps an indication
of the growing strength of the party, did not guarantee success, and
the November election returns in Allegheny County and Pittsburgh
reflected the national results, Hoover winning by 56,000 and 8,000
votes respectively. Upon closer analysis, however, the results must
have sent mixed messages to the Democratic county chairman. On
the one hand, the Smith vote exceeded that of any Democratic can-
didate in the century. He won nearly one-third of the county boroughs
and townships and fourteen wards in the city of Pittsburgh, includ-


36 <1 Don't call me boss

ing several of those dominated by the ruling Republican bosses. Not
surprisingly, Smith's support came overwhelmingly from the wards
dominated by the blue-collar, foreign-bom, Catholic residents of the
city. The First and Second wards, with the highest proportion of
foreign-bom in the city, gave Smith three-fourths of the votes cast.
He also won in the Hill District wards, populated by Southern and
Eastern European—bom workers, the Polish neighborhoods of the Sixth
Ward, the Eastern European South Side, and the German and Irish
areas on the North Side.3° Even in defeat, Lawrence must have felt
that, given the right candidate, the Democratic party could pull off
an upset victory.

Smith, however, in Lawrence's mind had been the near perfect
candidate. Only one factor stood against him, and that in Lawrence's
later analysis was the deciding factor: Srr1ith’s Catholicism. Lawrence's
own defeat in 1931 further reinforced his belief that Roman Catholi-
cism was an insurmountable handicap for a political candidate. His
concern over the issue became so strong that it bordered on paranoia.
Several times he passed over excellent candidates, including on one
occasion himself, because of their affiliation to the Catholic Church.
In Smith's case, Lawrence rejected the 1932 candidacy of the man he
deeply admired solely on the religious issue.

If the Smith campaign of 1928 gave the Democratic party in Alle-
gheny County any hope, it was quickly dashed by the succeeding elec-
tions. As was noted earlier, the 1929 municipal elections produced
more of the same for the city's Democracy, and Iohn M. Hemphill
was soundly defeated for the govemorship in 1930.

Guffey and Lawrence, however, by shifting from the Smith to the
Roosevelt bandwagon, not only survived to fight another day but
emerged from the twenties in excellent position to lead the battle.
Guffey endeared himself to Roosevelt by providing needed infor-
mation and support in the interim years, and Lawrence earned Guf-
fey’s support with his loyalty and the energy he brought to the Roose-
velt cause. As early as Iuly I931, Guffey pledged that ”not less than
sixty-six of Pennsylvania's seventy-two delegates to the Democratic
National Convention will support Roosevelt first, last and all the
time. . . . This is based on conversations with not only the leaders
but the rank and file of our party throughout the entire state/'31 The
Pennsylvania Democratic party, led by Guffey, and its Allegheny
County branch, directed by Lawrence, would have to wait another
year for their first major success, but their efforts in support of Roose-
velt were earning lasting political capital that would pay immense
dividends for both.

1929-1934
Crumbs No More

On 31 December 1929, Alyce and David Lawrence, his business part-
ner Iimmy Kirk, and State Senator Iames Coyne joined other merry-
makers at Pittsburgh's Roosevelt Hotel to bid farewell to an old year
and to toast the coming of a new decade. They remained at the cele-
bration until after midnight, dancing and greeting old friends and ac-
quaintances. But none of the men had much reason to celebrate. The
insurance company in which all three were involved was deeply in
debt and on the brink of bankruptcy. Republican political boss Coyne,
constantly under attack from the city's newspapers and the liberal
wing of his party, was involved in a fierce battle to maintain control
of his organization. Lawrence's situation was even more desperate.
Unlike Coyne, he depended upon profits from the insurance firm for
a living. Furthermore, his decade as party chairman had produced
only negative results. Each local election ended in a defeat more dev-
astating than the one before. Party registration was only one-half of
what it had been when he assumed command. Even the glimmer of
hope produced by the strong local showing of Al Smith was dashed
by the smashing loss in the most recent mayoralty election. His party
had proved unable to take advantage of the deep divisions among the
Republicans. Moreover, a serious split had developed within his own
organization. Reform-minded Democrats, no longer able to tolerate
the party's half-century-old custom of playing for the favor of the Re-
publicans, had grown increasingly shrill in their criticism of Lawrence.
If Lawrence spent any time at the gala New Year's Eve party musing
on his situation, he certainly saw little reason for optimism in the
coming decade.

The financial situation of the Harris-Lawrence Insurance Agency
grew worse during the first year of the decade and demanded much 37

38 <1 Don't call me boss

of Lawrence's time. As president and major investor he stood to lose
the most. His close friend Art Rooney later recalled that he suspended
most of his political activities during the year, working six and seven
days a week attempting to sell insurance and occasionally real estate
to keep the company afloat.‘ Few Pittsburgh residents, however, were
in the market for either in 1930. Many were already out of work and
desperately holding onto whatever savings they had. In dire times the
insurance policy was often the first to go. The real estate market was
even worse, with mortgage foreclosures beginning to outnumber pur-
chases by a substantial margin. Only the sale of surety bonds, pur-
chased mainly by the Republican-controlled city and county govem-
ments, and several loans prevented the company from succumbing
to the growing tide of business failures sweeping the city. Coyne’s
investment in the firm and his position at the head of the Republican
party undoubtedly contributed to the willingness of city and county
officials to purchase its bonds from Harris-Lawrence. Although the
amounts were small, they provided important help at a crucial mo-
ment, adding substance to the charge of Lawrence's willing coopera-
tion with the opposition during the early stages of his career. The
bonds later became a major point of contention in his political life.

The Allegheny County Board of Commissioners election in 1931
strengthened the charges against Lawrence and nearly ruined his po-
litical career. Unable to defeat the Republican machine, his critics
charged, he once again handed his party over to the opposition, caus-
ing irreconcilable divisions within the tiny organization. Following
in the footsteps of his tutors, Tommy Toole and William Brennen,
Lawrence concluded that his party stood to gain only by acquiescing
to the dominant forces.

Twelve Republicans, including an incumbent, Ioseph Armstrong,
state senators Iames Coyne and William Mansfield, and Charles Mc-
Govern, a political maverick, announced their intention to run for
the two county commissioners’ seats allotted to the majority party.
The list was eventually pared to these four. The county organization
supported Coyne and Mansfield, while Mayor Charles Kline's city
machine openly supported Coyne but quietly backed Armstrong's bid
for a third term. A dozen ward leaders showed their independence
by rejecting Armstrong in favor of either Mansfield or McGovern.
Neither Coyne nor Armstrong, moreover, was willing to accept the
other as a running mate, a situation that led to what one Republican
called ”a crossword puzzle written in a madhouse.” To confuse the
muddled Republican scene further, a reform Republican, Caldwalder
Barr, announced his candidacy on the Square Deal ticket? Within

Crumbs No More l> 39

two days, McGovern armounced that he would join Barr as his run-
ning mate but would also continue his candidacy for the Republi-
can nomination.

The situation seemed ripe for an all-out Democratic attack. Hop-
ing to avoid the primary election battles facing the Republicans,
Lawrence abandoned his 1929 experiment of permitting a citizens’ com-
mittee to select a slate of candidates. He turned instead to a political
caucus consisting of the party's executive committee. The caucus
quickly agreed upon the solid, if unspectacular, Thomas Daugherty,
a jury commissioner, but it became hopelessly deadlocked over the
choice of a running mate. It eventually turned to Lawrence as a com-
promise choice. He resisted initially, arguing first that he could be
of greater benefit to the party acting behind the scenes as its chair-
man, and second, arguing passionately that the county was not ready
for a Catholic candidate.

Nevertheless, the widening Republican split presented a great op-
portunity for the minority party. Ripped apart by ideological and per-
sonal divisions, the Republicans seemed vulnerable in spite of their
long domination of local politics. A united Democratic party, Law-
rence concluded, might capture two of the commissioner positions
and would certainly take the minority slot now held by an indepen-
dent Republican. Reluctantly he agreed to accept the nomination, as
he would again later, in order to maintain party cohesion.

Lawrence's selection could hardly be considered a true draft. As
the party's most prominent member for more than a decade, he had
been considered in several previous elections Moreover, the honor
of winning the party's endorsement was a dubious one at best. Demo-
cratic candidates considered themselves sacrificial lambs keeping the
democratic process barely alive and retaining control of the positions
legally allotted to the minority. Others had fulfilled their duty on
the chopping block. One loyal Democrat, William McNair, had run
for office in five previous elections. If Lawrence was to keep the leader-
ship of the party, it was now his turn. McNair volunteered‘to serve
as campaign manager.

Lawrence's strategy, however, failed to provide the desired united
front when Thomas Hester, a former jury commissioner, challenged
the Democratic slate. In armouncing his candidacy, Hester raised the
old issue of Lawrence's alleged subservience to the Republican ma-
jority, and his attack haunted Lawrence for the whole campaign.

Regardless of Hester’s accusations, the 1931 primary season brought
new hope to the Democratic organization. Lawrence reorganized the
party structure, creating committees representing teachers, several

40 <1 Don’t call me boss

labor unions, and at least three ethnic groups in an attempt to attract
new supporters. He organized dinners and dances for campaign work-
ers, introducing them to one another and making them feel a part
of the Democratic party.3 Lawrence, McNair, and Kirk appeared at
rallies all over the county. Curiously, Daugherty did little campaign-
ing in the primary and so lent credence to Hester’s earlier charge.
Crowds at Democratic rallies remained small, and the major Pitts-
burgh newspapers paid scant attention to their activities.

The Republicans, on the other hand, provided front-page news
almost daily. They branded one another as ”subverters of democracy,”
”despotic bosses” and ”despoilers of the public trust.” Other less imagi-
native terms included, incompetent, indifierent, grafters, racketeers
and common criminaIs.4 Political posters of all Republican candidates
were periodically destroyed, and McGovem’s campaign headquarters
was ransacked twice.

The Coyne-Kline alliance suffered the most damaging blows
shortly before the primary election set for I 5 September when it was
announced that Mayor Kline, indicted on forty-six charges of mal-
feasance in office, would stand trial before the year's end. The an-
nouncement naturally added fuel to the reform Republicans’ fire. Every
speech by McGovern and Barr during the final week of the primary
campaign mentioned the indictments. The Pittsburgh Press mean-
while continued its attack on Kline, charging abuses and extrava-
gances totaling more than $500,000 in two years.5

Charges of voter registration irregularities were also laid at the
door of Kline and Coyne. The Pitts burgh Press ran a photo campaign
showing the locations of allegedly ”registered voters”—including a
wharf at 39 Water Street, an abandoned post office, a vacant building
at 601 Grant Street, a billboard at 2842 Liberty Avenue, and a ware-
house where thirty-four ”voters” lived. In its own investigation, the
Allegheny County Bar Association discovered that thousands of citi-
zens were being disenfranchised because unauthorized persons had
already paid individual poll taxes in order to collect the receipts, which
were then used by ”multiple voters” at polling places throughout
the county.6 On 30 August the Press revealed that registrants for
the primary exceeded the adult population of the city by II,ooo. The
greatest abuses came from Coyne’s home ward, the Fourth, and fif-
teen others tightly controlled by Kline and Coyne. The courts even-
tually removed 5o,ooo illegal registrants from the voting rolls, but
by 15 September ”Klineism” or ”Coyneism,” as it came to be called,
was synonymous with corruption and election fraud.

The Republican primary, not surprisingly, recorded the extent of

Crumbs No More l> 41

the dissatisfaction with the party machine. On election day, voting
riots spread throughout the city in spite of the presence of fifty state
troopers sent in by Governor Pinchot to guarantee the legality of the
election. Several ballot boxes were stolen and the locks broken on
thirty-two others. Two recounts were taken, and not until 8 October
were the official vote counts released. While an organization can-
didate, Mansfield, led the ticket, an independent, McGovern, won
the second spot. Armstrong and Coyne, placing third and fourth re-
spectively, were eliminated from contention. Given the huge Repub-
lican registration majority, Mansfield and McGovern were thus cer-
tain to win seats on the county commission. Barr won first place on
the Square Deal ticket and had to be considered a serious contender
for the third commissioner's seat. A victory by both antiorganization
candidates, McGovern and Barr, seriously threatened the party's con-
trol of the county. The organization had to gain a second commis-
sionership. At least 3,500 county patronage positions, providing jobs
to the Republican faithful, were at stake.7 To make matters worse,
three of four candidates backed by Kline for city council also lost,
and both the city and county machines were thus in jeopardy.

The furor of the Republican battle and the continuing ineptness
of the Democrats were, as usual, reflected by the treatment of the
two parties in the Pittsburgh newspapers. In spite of the Democrats’
intraparty squabbles, an examination of the city's papers prior to the
primary would convince one that the party did not exist. Campaign
rallies received almost no coverage, and the Pittsburgh Press under-
scored its disdain for the party by failing to list the Democratic can-
didates on its sample ballot three days prior to the primary election.
Hester, running without the benefit of the party's meager support,
undoubtedly suffered most from the lack of publicity, for Lawrence
and Daugherty won the nomination easily. The entire primary cam-
paign cost the Democratic organization $325. The four Republicans,
in contrast, had spent nearly $2o,ooo.8

In the week following the primary, Daugherty, who led the ticket,
announced that he was stepping aside to permit Lawrence to run alone.
Upon hearing this, Kline and Coyne decided to turn to Coyne’s old
friend to solve their election dilemma. They could tolerate one in-
dependent, McGovern, on the board of commissioners, but not two.
Lawrence, they decided, could be trusted to work with Mansfield,
even though he headed the opposition party. Barr, a reform Republi-
can, had to be defeated. Thus the two, originally without Lawrence's
knowledge, decided to support him.

Republican party workers were given orders to provide any assis-

42 <1 Don’t call me boss

tance requested by the Democratic campaign headquarters. Lawrence-
Mansfield posters were printed at the expense of the Republican party,
William L. Mellon allegedly provided funds for the Lawrence cam-
paign, and Coyne’s press agent, Eddie Iones, was loaned to it. Imme-
diately before the general election, sample ballots marked for
Mansfield and Lawrence were distributed throughout the city.9

Whether Lawrence welcomed the support of the Republican or-
ganization is not clear. Evidence of meetings between Lawrence and
the Coyne-Kline forces does not exist, although it was certainly pos-
sible for the two sides to meet at the secluded Coyne or Lawrence
farms. Lawrence never publicly accepted their endorsement. What
is equally clear is that he never publicly repudiated it either. As the
only Democrat in the race, he probably believed that he had nothing
to lose by covertly accepting the endorsement of the entrenched re-
gime. But 1931 was without a doubt the wrong year to become asso-
ciated with Kline and Coyne. Lawrence was blasted by the reform
elements of Pittsburgh and by members of his own party. The Pitts-
burgh Sun-Telegraph and the Pittsburgh Press assailed him almost
daily as a ”tool of Klineism-Coyneism,” as a ”false Democrat,” and as
the ”candidate of the Democratic-Republican machine.” Three times
a week the Press ran a front-page, four-column editorial headed ”Give
one of your votes to Barr!” explaining how, although only entitled to
vote for two candidates, voters could ensure the election of indepen-
dents Barr and McGovem.1°

Lawrence's silence on the matter of support from the discredited
Republican regime eventually resulted in a revolt in his own party.
Iohn Henry, an attorney, was the first to attack him. When the
Lawrence forces made no response, Henry recruited a number of allies
in his attempt to oust the party chairman. Four days before the gen-
eral election, Henry and eight other prominent Democrats, includ-
ing Hester, defeated in the primary, released a signed letter to all the
Pittsburgh papers repudiating Lawrence for exploiting the party for
his own selfish benefit and outlining a history of collusion by Law-
rence with the Republican bosses. The attack concluded: ”W e believe
that his election will unquestionably give to a vicious Republican
organization a continued foothold in the commissionefs office and
will perpetuate the bipartisan machine in which David L. Lawrence
has long assumed an important role.”“

Lawrence's response evaded the charges. Speaking the next night
at the Garfield Elementary School, he tried to discredit his accusers
by questioning their loyalty to the Democratic party. ”T he real lead-
ers [of the party], familiar with ’who’s who’ in local party affairs, are

Crumbs No More [> 43

wondering what any one of these nine ever did, beyond holding office,
to warrant being listed as ’prominent Democrats.”’ Warming to the
task, he attacked each one by name and concluded by observing that
”it is no secret that a majority of the nine expect to be on the county
payroll after Ian. I. I challenge them to come out and declare that if
tendered public office during the next four years that they will refuse
it/'12 Lawrence, however, failed to deny the charged collusion with
the Republican machine. The missed opportunity was a major tacti-
cal error—one he would never make again.

Lawrence's failure to reject the aid being offered by Kline and
Coyne resulted from three factors growing out of his background and
his understanding of the established political situation. First,
Lawrence and Coyne, although political foes, were longtime friends
and business associates. They saw each other socially; they met oc-
casionally in the course of their insurance activities; and they fre-
quently exchanged views at weekends on their adjoining farms. Coyne
and Kline were also in a position to help Lawrence financially. He
did not deny the press charge that ”the Harris-Lawrence Insurance
Agency collected commissions on more than $700,000 in contractor's
performance bonds for city work alone,” but simply pointed out that
the commission on the alleged $7oo,ooo amounted to only $2,100,
hardly a sum over which to commit political conspiracy. Lawrence
ignored a charge by the Press that he once borrowed $4,000 from
Coyne.” His attitude, according to several political contemporaries,
came from the belief that he could weather the political criticism
while retaining his friendship with Coyne. One can only speculate
on the cost of this friendship to Lawrence and the Democratic party.

Second, the charge against him—a willingness to accept the
crumbs from the Republican table—was at least partly true. Lawrence
had learned his politics under two men, Toole and Brennen, both of
whom aligned themselves with the Republican party. In return for
their cooperation, the ruling party customarily reserved a number of
patronage positions for willing Democrats. (In 192.9, for example, al-
most half of the 5,200 registered Democrats worked for the city or
county government.) Lawrence himself later admitted that ”prior to
1932 . . . Democrats always played for the minority places/'14 His own
career, moreover, had benefited from his association with prominent
Republicans. He attempted to conduct vigorous campaigns for each
election, but his candidates were never as critical of the Republi-
cans as critics within the GOP were of themselves. This gentle ap-
proach certainly lent credence to the allegation of collusion. More
damaging, however, was the charge made by Mrs. I. 0. Miller, state

44 <1 Don't call me boss

president of the League of Women Voters, that Lawrence acquired pos-
session of the minutes of a meeting at which Republican County Com-
missioner Armstrong illegally created seventy new government posi-
tions. Lawrence might have denounced Armstrong publicly, gaining
important public credit for himself and his party. Instead, he ignored
the evidence and Mrs. Miller, who later brought legal charges against
Armstrong.” The case was eventually dismissed by a Republican-
controlled court but does show a strong reluctance on the part of Law-
rence to attack the Republican bosses.

Finally, one must consider that the pragmatic Lawrence simply
felt that the Republicans, in spite of their internal battles, were too
strong to take on directly. They still had, after years of infighting,
a huge voter registration edge. Republicans could fight Republicans,
but the winners would still be Republicans. In addition, although the
Democrats had gained a substantial number of workers, they still had
almost no funding. Campaign posters and sample ballots supporting
Lawrence may have been purchased by Republicans, but the finan-
cially strapped Democratic leadership looked upon them as a stroke
of great fortune. They now had publicity material to distribute. Fi-
nally, only when the local newspapers revealed the so-called Coyne-
Lawrence alliance did the Democrats receive any press coverage at
all. Lawrence might become tainted as a Coyne lackey, but at least
his candidacy would not die of anonymity.

Lawrence, for his part, continued to conduct his campaign and
build the party as though the tempest were not swirling about him.
From 25 October until election day he spoke at thirty-five campaign
meetings. He scheduled and attended three meetings per evening on
Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays and held large rallies Wednesday and
Thursday evenings at Carnegie Hall in Oakland and on the North
Side. Supporting reform of Pittsburgh's real estate laws, efficiency in
government, and relief to the unemployed, he attracted small but en-
thusiastic crowds and evidently recruited some new party workers.
”Once again,” he announced on I November, ”we have enough party
workers to man every one of the county's polling places.” He also re-
ceived his party's first union endorsement from Steamfitters and Help-
ers Local Number 449.16

Election day 1931 brought mixed results and presented complex
signals to local political leaders. Mansfield, an organization Repub-
lican, led all candidates with I7I,OOO votes, but the independents,
McGovern and Barr, claimed the second and third commissioner po-
sitions with 163,000 and 127,000 votes respectively. Democrat Law-
rence, backed by the Kline-Coyne machine, polled the fewest votes,

Crumbs No More [> 45

119,000. The Pittsburgh Press, in a bit of journalistic excess, called
the election of the two independent Republicans the biggest political
revolution in more than a quarter of a century. The antimachine
editors ironically headlined the defeat of a Democrat by an indepen-
dent Republican running under a Square Deal party label as the de-
struction of the Republican machine.”

A more objective observation would show that the Republican
machine was still capable of producing a majority for its own candi-
dates. Both Mansfield and Lawrence rolled up large pluralities in the
seventeen Pittsburgh wards and fifteen county municipalities con-
trolled by the Republican organization. 13 The strong machine nucleus,
however, could not deliver a Lawrence victory and showed serious
signs of vulnerability. A number of independent wards, mostly in the
rapidly growing suburban sectors of Pittsburgh, helped deliver the total
city vote to McGovern over Lawrence. Three-fourths of the county
municipalities, in addition, gave pluralities to both McGovern and
Barr over Mansfield and Lawrence. Even more disturbing to the or-
ganization, of course, was the potential loss of control of countywide
patronage jobs. McGovern and Barr would join together to control
nearly all of the 3,500 jobs available to the majority commissioners.
Deprived of its patronage, the Republican machine found it increas-
ingly difficult to maintain party discipline in subsequent elections.

The results of Lawrence's campaign are more difficult to evalu-
ate. He received more votes than any other Democratic candidate for
local office in the history of the city. Yet it is impossible to deter-
mine what proportion derived from the support of Kline and Coyne.
The analysis of voter returns by wards and municipalities certainly
suggests that the Republican regulars provided strong backing. Equally
perplexing is the question of how many votes Lawrence would have
received had he decided to attack rather than join the Republican
bosses. Certainly, the Republican split and alleged widespread cor-
ruption of 1931 offered a tempting opportunity that Lawrence passed
by. It was an opportunity he would not miss again. His postelection
comment that the results demonstrated the vulnerability of the Re-
publican organization, while mainly the political bravado of a defeated
candidate, suggests that he recognized that it was time to chart an
independent course.” The Republican machine was now terminally
ill, and new opportunities would appear in each of the next two years.

The blow the Republican bosses received in the 1931 election had
hardly stopped throbbing when they suffered another. Mayor Kline,
despite attempts at postponement, stood trial and was convicted of
malfeasance in office. He was ordered to resign and sentenced to a

Michael P. Weber

on’t call me boss
AVID L. LAWRENCE,

PITTSBURGH’S RENAISSANCE MAYOR

UNIVERSITY OF PITTSBURGH PRESS

46 <1 Don’t call me boss

six-month prison term. The prison sentence was eventually sus-
pended, but Kline left office in disgrace on 30 March 1933 and died
of a stroke within less than four months. The city council president,
Iohn Herron, became mayor pro tempore. It was Herron, the city's
last Republican mayor, who presided over the demise of a thoroughly
discredited political party.

V

National events, meanwhile, also conspired against Pittsburgh's
Grand Old Party. The Depression of the I93os hit Pittsburgh particu-
larly hard. Orders for steel and the other heavy industrial products
manufactured in western Pennsylvania reached all-time lows in the
spring of 1932. Unemployment exceeded 25 percent and topped 40 per-
cent among blacks and certain white ethnic groups. One study esti-
mated that in March 1933 more than 2oo,ooo Allegheny County resi-
dents were unemployed, while nearly two-thirds of those who did have
work were idle more than 40 percent of the time. In the vital steel
industry, less than one-third of the 1929 work force remained on full-
time status. Those able to hold onto their jobs were forced to take
large pay cuts, wages were cut by 60 percent and salaries by 50 per-
cent. ”It was terrible,” one individual recalled. ”My father was out of
work for eighteen months. We survived by my parents’ booking il-
legal numbers. We would have lost our home but the savings and loan
company didn't know what to do with it so they let us live there for
a small amount. Neither my mother nor my father had ever voted
for a Democrat, but no one had to convince them to vote for Roose-
velt. Shortly after the election, my dad got a job working at the post
office. And you know what, they haven't voted for a Republican since.”
Another Pittsburgher, Raymond Czachowski, remembered, ”My fa-
ther’s business went bankrupt. We lived meagerly, but we lived. To
this day I don't eat potatoes because I think that's all we ate. My
mother made potatoes in every way, shape, and form—bread and
everything else—just to keep us going. We took our showers at the
boy's club because we didn't have hot water at home/'20

Cyrus L. Sulzberger of the New York Times used Pittsburgh to
produce a graphic series chronicling the tragic conditions of the De-
pression at its worst. Shantytowns and Hoovervilles appeared in sev-
eral outlying areas and along the Strip District on Liberty Avenue.
Soup kitchens and apple carts began operation in the downtown sec-
tions and on the North and South sides. Private relief agencies, which
shouldered the greatest burden in the early stages, exhausted their
resources, and the problem grew worse with each passing month. State

Crumbs No More l> 47

and local poor boards, mired in bureaucracy and special interests,
squandered the little amount they appropriated on postage and per-
sonnel rather than on food and clothing for the needy.“

In desperation, Father Iames Cox of St. Patrick's, spokesman for
the city's jobless, led an ”army” of unemployed men to Washington,
D.C., in Ianuary 1932 seeking federal assistance. The well-behaved
group was cheered by onlookers as it marched through Harrisburg,
then south to Gettysburg and on to the capital. President Hoover met
with Cox, assuring him that he was fighting the ”final campaign of
the Depression,” but promised no immediate relief. Unconvinced, Cox
returned to Pittsburgh to announce his candidacy for the presidency
under the Iobless party banner. The city's workers, meanwhile, be-
gan to abandon their old Republican allegiance.

The Democratic county chairman, hardened by the series of pre-
vious defeats, could hardly wait for the campaign to begin. The sports-
minded Lawrence viewed each election as another season. His ”wait
until next year” approach enabled him to ignore previous defeats —to
look forward to the next contest as an opportunity for a fresh start.
Like a baseball manager during the off-season, he utilized the interim
to shuffle his team and acquire new ”players” to replace those who
could no longer fill a useful role or to strengthen the ”team” where
needed. Successful against an attempt by twenty-two ”independent
Democrats” including Henry and Hester, to replace him as chairman
in March 1932, he reorganized the party, purging a number of ward
chairmen who had performed below his expectations in the 1931 cam-
paign, and eliminating several who had sided with the disgruntled
element in the party. He streamlined the executive committee, cut-
ting it in size and establishing new lines of command to the ward
level. Ward chairmen were ordered to conduct their own fund-raising
campaigns, and each chairman was expected to hold party rallies in
his own ward during the campaign. Recalcitrant chairmen were called
in and told to comply, or the party would support an opposition can-
didate in the next ward election.”-

Lawrence, who had reorganized the party structure three times
during the 19203, was well aware, of course, that much remained to
be done. Additional workers, funding, and above all, voters willing
to abandon their long tradition of voting the straight Republican ticket
had to be recruited. The key to all three was an attractive alternative
to Herbert Hoover, who, in Pittsburgh, was rapidly becoming the whip-
ping boy for all the ills of the Depression.

Lawrence went to the Democratic National Convention in June
1932 with ambivalent feelings. He was convinced that Franklin D.

48 <1 Don’t call me boss

Roosevelt, whom he had met at the 1924 convention and again in I928
when both supported the candidacy of Al Smith, was such a candi-
date. Indeed, he and Joseph Guffey had spent a good part of 1931 and
early 1932 beating the drum for Roosevelt across Pennsylvania. Law-
rence’s emotional choice for president, however, was still Al Smith,
but the negative effect of Smith's Catholicism overruled any other
feelings. He simply could not win, and Roosevelt was the logical
alternative.

Roosevelt and Iames A. Farley had openly courted the urban po-
litical bosses but at convention time could count upon the support
of only Thomas Pendergast of Kansas City, Edward H. Crump of Mem-
phis, and Edward H. Flyrm of the Bronx. Frank Hague of Iersey City,
Anton Cermak of Chicago, and New York's Tammany machine, on
the other hand, remained solidly in the Smith camp. Mayor Curley
of Boston supported Roosevelt but was unable to control his delega-
tion at the convention.” Lawrence was not yet in the same league,
but, as an ally of Ioseph Guffey, a national committeeman and gener-
ous financial contributor, he had access to the Roosevelt inner circle.
The two men corresponded several times with Roosevelt between
1928 and 1932 and by 1932 were firmly in the Roosevelt camp. In addi-
tion to canvassing the state on his behalf, they created the Allegheny
County for Roosevelt Club and, probably with Guffey’s money, sup-
plied buttons bearing the slogan ”America Calls Another Roosevelt.”
Their early support was soon handsomely rewarded.

Lawrence played a minor role at the national convention, but
he and Guffey were able to provide fifty-five votes for Roosevelt on
each of four ballots, more than any other state. The two returned to
Pittsburgh buoyed by their candidate's chances for success, and the
rapidly deteriorating economic conditions gave free rein to their or-
ganizational talents.“

Guffey remained in close contact with the Roosevelt organiza-
tion throughout the campaign and played the more significant role.
His financial support of Democratic candidates—Cox, Smith, and
Roosevelt, and numerous Pennsylvania hopefuls -— gave him recogni-
tion as the state Democratic leader. Warren Van Dyke, the state party
chairman, owed his office to Guffey, and Lawrence himself had bene-
fited several times through Guffey’s intercession. Lawrence, although
with considerable freedom, operated primarily as GuHey’s lieuten-
ant during the campaign. As such he was always careful to accede
to Guffey in matters of protocol or principle. Lawrence's opportunity
to challenge for broader power would come later. In the Roosevelt
election he confined his efforts to winning in Allegheny County.

Crumbs No More [> 49

Correctly surmising that the city's blue-collar wards were the most
likely to shift to Roosevelt, he focused his attention on the black and
ethnic wards. Black voters, who comprised almost 10 percent of the
city's population, had consistently delivered the Third, Fifth, Twelfth,
and Twentieth wards to the GOP. In return they had received only
minor political positions such as ward committeeman, policeman,
and court clerk. Their patronage rewards included only the least de-
sirable jobs, such as garbage collector, janitor, and elevator operator.
All four black wards were controlled by white chairmen, and not a
single black served on the policy—making board of the party. Repub-
lican leaders slighted even the most influential black leaders. Robert
Vann, editor of the nationally circulated Pittsburgh Courier, who
yearned for a major federal appointment, had worked diligently for
the previous three Republican presidents. All three sought his sup-
port and the votes it could offer but failed to deliver the coveted fed-
eral post.-“P5 T 0 make matters worse, as black unemployment soared,
the city and county, desperate for funds, began to cut blacks, as well
as other lower-income workers, from the payroll.

In March 1932, at the urging of Guffey and Lawrence, Roosevelt
invited Vann to Hyde Park to discuss the possibility of a high-level
position in a future Roosevelt administration. Vann returned to Pitts-
burgh a Roosevelt supporter. Using the Courier as its chief organ, he
established a ”parallel organization.” Rather than joining the estab-
lished Democratic organization, Vann created a Negro division of the
Democratic National Committee and formed the Allied Roosevelt
Clubs of Pennsylvania with himself as head. Black political workers
rallied to Vann’s call, swelling the Black Democratic Club in Alle-
gheny County to more than 1,000.26 For the remainder of the cam-
paign, Vann urged black voters in Pittsburgh and across the country
to join the Roosevelt following. He went to Cleveland to deliver his
first major address before a Democratic audience. It was the most
effective of his life. Speaking at the St. Iames Literary Forum, he
chronicled the long history of Republican abuses of loyal black sup-
porters. Focusing on the past three administrations, he charged that
”the Republican party under Harding absolutely deserted us. The Re-
publican party under Mr. Coolidge was a lifeless, voiceless thing. The
Republican party under Mr. Hoover has been the saddest failure
known to political history.” But it was the conclusion of his address
that captured the crowd and catapulted him into national prominence.
”It is a mistaken idea that the Negro must wait until the party selects
him. The only true political philosophy dictates that the Negro must
select his party and not wait to be selected. . . . I see millions of Ne-

50 <1 Don't call me boss

groes turning the picture of Lincoln to the wall. This year I see Ne-
groes voting a Democratic ticket. . . . I for one shall join the ranks
of this new army of fearless courageous, patriotic Negroes/'27

Vann’s address was reprinted in many black newspapers and cir-
culated nationally as a pamphlet. The Courier, meanwhile, contin-
ued to pound at Hoover for a myriad of sins, and black clergymen
echoed its sentiments from their pulpits. Blacks faced with the eco-
nomic realities of the depression undoubtedly had little difficulty ac-
cepting their exhortations.

Lawrence also made special attempts to win over the city's eth-
nic voters. Counting on the support of his own Irish voters, he turned
his attention to those from Eastern and Southern Europe. Lawrence,
Kirk, and several others spent many evenings on the South Side in
an attempt to persuade the city's Eastern European electorate to throw
its support to Roosevelt. Inhabited mainly by steelworkers, the Six-
teenth and Seventeenth wards had supported Smith in 1928 and La
Follette four years before that. With unemployment running at 31
and 42 percent respectively, they were a solid bet to remain in the
Democratic column. Priests at St. Adalbert’s and St. Iosephat (Kunce-
wicz) Polish Catholic Church permitted their church halls to be used
for campaign rallies and temporary South Side headquarters until a
permanent location could be found. Workers from all of the ethnic
parishes, one Croatian and two Polish fraternal associations, and sev-
eral small labor locals provided campaign workers and distributed
literature among their membership. While each ward continued to
have an American-bom chairman, usually Irish, the list of commit-
teepersons was liberally dotted with names such as Iohn Kamoski,
Peter Dokmanovich, Louise Yarsky, and Magdelina Norkiewicz.23

Special efforts were also made in the Sixth Ward, whose Polish
Hill neighborhood contained the largest Polish-American population
of any ward. Lawrence and Cox—after he abandoned his own presi-
dential hopes —whose parish abutted Polish Hill and who knew many
of the community's laborers by name, spoke six times at the Falcon’s
Nest Hall. Perhaps more important, the party demonstrated its inter-
est in the Polish vote by assuring that every one of the sixteen Demo-
cratic comrnitteepersons from the area was of Polish descent. Slightly
under one-half of the Republican committeepersons, in contrast,
claimed Polish ancestry—in an area more than 90 percent Polish.”

Italian-Americans who made up 8 percent of the population, were
also singled out for special efforts. Unemployment in the Italian neigh-
borhoods of Bloomfield and East Liberty exceeded the city norm, and
both districts had supported Smith in 1928. The city, furthermore, was

Crumbs No More l> 51

the national headquarters of the Italian Sons and Daughters of Amer-
ica, publisher of the influential paper Unione. Lawrence and Gufiey
courted its editor, Muzio Frediani, in Lawrence's terms, ”like the
only girl at the dance,” but they were unable to enlist his support.
The newspaper, which had supported Harding, Coolidge, and Hoo-
ver, eventually called for the president's reelection.3° Undaunted, the
Democratic organization campaigned hard in the Italian wards. Prom-
ising a brighter future for the nation's workers —”the Forgotten Man”
—they generated a strong Roosevelt following. An Italian Democratic
Committee, with branches in the Eighth and Twelfth wards, orga-
nized to lead the anticipated groundswell for Roosevelt. Catholic
clergy campaigned from their pulpits, and fraternal associations be-
came meeting places for the spreading Roosevelt movement.

The Republicans, of course, did not abandon western Pennsylvania
to the opposition, but years of feuding at the local and state levels
had begun to take their toll. Locally the organization stood discred-
ited and stripped of much of its power as a consequence of the 1931
commissioners’ race and the conviction of Mayor Kline. Statewide,
a decade of fighting among William L. Mellon, William Vare, Gover-
nor Gifford Pinchot, and Ioseph Grundy, the president of the Penn-
sylvania Manufacturers’ Association, had left the party leaderless and
inept. An unusual shortage of funding compounded its problems.
Grundy, the party's great fund-raiser in past elections, now in semi-
retirement, refused to solicit businessmen already in difficult finan-
cial condition for campaign funds. In addition, Pinchot, a progressive
Republican, had thrown his support to Roosevelt and refused to per-
mit the Republican organization to assess state employees for ”vol-
untary” contributions. They had provided the party with more than
$300,000 in 1928.31

Desperate for funds, Charles Graham, Pennsylvania chairman of
the Hoover—Curtis Committee, devised a plan to extract ”contribu-
tions” and votes from the state's working population. At a luncheon
of 1,600 bar1kers and corporation officials at Pittsburgh's William Penn
Hotel, Graham and U.S. Senator David Reed advised employers to
urge their workers to vote for Hoover and to work for his reelection.
Graham did caution the audience to avoid coercion, but the message
was strikingly clear. Workers all over the city were subsequently del-
uged with the message that a Roosevelt victory would place their
jobs in jeopardy. One company, heeding Graham's caution, invited
its workers to a voluntary, free lunch at which ”company oflicials
will talk to you about the coming election. . . . In order to inject some
fun . . . we will have a drawing of ten large hams.”32

52 <1 Don't call me boss

Party chairman Lawrence, no longer cooperating with the Repub-
lican majority, responded to the Graham strategy with unusual bit-
terness. Speaking two and three times daily, he charged Republicans
with attempting to intimidate workers into voting for Hoover. ”T he
promise of a full dinner pail has become the threat of the empty pay
envelope. . . . The concern manifested by these Republican industrial
overlords for the welfare of their employees and their families brings
a smile of cynicism to those men and women who saw their life sav-
ings swept away through bank failures. . . . The next congress will
be asked to take steps to bring to an end such un-American tactics
and if I correctly appraise the present temper of the American peo-
ple, they will see to it that never again will employers be permitted
to engage in a campaign of terror and tyrarmy in an effort to force
the election of a President and Congress pledged to a perpetuation
of a policy of prosperity for the few and servitude for the many/'33

Lawrence also successfully sought and won the financial back-
ing of several traditional Republican supporters. Most important, the
announced switch to the Democratic cause of Michael Benedurn darn-
aged the Republican party's prestige as well as its financial status.
Benedum, an oil wildcatter who made his fortune on the famous Texas
Spindletop strike, had long-terrn political and financial ties with Wil-
liam L. Mellon and Iarnes Coyne and had contributed large sums to
Hoover's 1928 campaign. Nevertheless, he turned his back on the or-
ganization in 1932 by contributing more than $50,000 to the opposi-
tion. For the first time in its long history, the western Pennsylvania
Democratic party was on solid financial ground. The Republicans,
on the other hand, in the unusual position of lacking enough funds
to conduct a full-scale campaign, closed several campaign offices in
mid October.34

Finally, Lawrence publicized Roosevelt's support of the repeal of
Prohibition (an important issue in the heavily ”wet” city) and con-
cern for the causes of organized labor throughout the 1932 campaign.
His alliance with both popular issues no doubt added to the growing
Democratic strength in western Pennsylvania.

Encouraged by his success at fund-raising and by the growing
crowds at Democratic rallies, Lawrence gambled. "W e want you to
speak in Pittsburgh,” Lawrence wrote to Roosevelt in October. ”Our
organization and your friends here earnestly request that you include
Pittsburgh in one of your itineraries. Ordinarily we would not make
this request, but for the first time since 18 56 we Pennsylvania Demo-
crats feel that the state can be carried and if we can make your lead
Ioo,ooo or better we will elect our state ticket. . . . I am confident

Crumbs No More [> 53

that Pennsylvania can be carried for you and am convinced that if
you will speak here, that will cinch it.”35

When Roosevelt agreed to appear, Lawrence gambled again, hir-
ing the thirty-five-thousand-seat Forbes Field for the address. The
gamble paid off: more than fifty thousand jammed the stadium on
19 October to hear a major Roosevelt address. It was a red-letter day
in the history of the western Pennsylvania Democrats. Roosevelt was
greeted by huge enthusiastic crowds as his motor caravan traveled
from the Pittsburgh and Lake Erie Railroad Station. Thousands lined
Smithfield Street to welcome their would-be savior. Public schools
were closed to permit the children to join in the festivities, and sev-
eral bands provided appropriate music. Roosevelt went directly to
Wheeling to deliver a morning address and then returned to Pitts-
burgh for an afternoon meeting with Lawrence and Guffey.

The evening's arrangements were testimony to Lawrence's orga-
nizational skills. Each of the key persons in the local Democratic drive
played a role in the ”warm-up” prior to Roosevelt's arrival. Father Cox,
who the day before had announced the abandonment of his own cam-
paign for president, urged his Iobless party followers to give their back-
ing to Roosevelt, and Vann reiterated his support. Several candidates
for statewide office spoke, and Guffey and Lawrence offered brief com-
ments. Four black bands representing the Allied Roosevelt Clubs of
Western Pennsylvania and half a dozen others representing various
ethnic groups and the American Legion entertained the crowd. Sev-
eral party workers dressed in donkey costumes acted as cheerleaders,
spurring the crowd on to greater ovations as speakers concluded their
remarks. Finally, at Io:oo P.M. the Greentree Fife and Drum Corps,
in striking green uniforms, led a single automobile carrying a lone
passenger through the center field gate. The roar could be heard for
blocks around. Pittsburgh and Allegheny County gave notice of their
impending shift into Democratic ranks.

Lawrence's final and perhaps most masterful touch on the eve-
ning was his selection of the person who would introduce the future
president: Michael L. Benedum. He spoke only a single sentence, but
his presence symbolized the defection of the wealthy from the Hoover
camp and cemented his relations with the local Democratic organiza-
tion. Benedum could be called upon for financial support for the next
thirty years.

In his nationally broadcast address (which sounds remarkably con-
temporary) Roosevelt accused the Republican administration of not
caring about the plight of millions of workers, criticized the mount-
ing federal deficit, and declared that he would raise taxes ”by what-

54 < Don’t call me boss

ever sum necessary to keep [the unemployed] from starving.” A fool-
ish promise to balance the federal budget would haunt him for the
next several years. His reiteration of the Democratic platform plank
promising to repeal Prohibition brought a rousing ovation from the
standing-room-only crowd.“

The Ioo,ooo-vote victory that Lawrence anticipated did not ma-
terialize. The city of Philadelphia and the state as a whole remained
loyal to the Republican party. In Pittsburgh and Allegheny County,
on the other hand, years of inept and often corrupt Republican rule,
the almost ceaseless intraparty battles, the disastrous effects of the
Depression, the Prohibition issue, and the growing effectiveness of
the Democratic organization all combined to produce different results.
Roosevelt carried the city and county by 27,000 and 37,000 votes re-
spectively. He won an impressive 26 of 32 wards to become the first
Democratic victor since before the Civil War.

Not surprisingly, Roosevelt's greatest support came from the city's
working-class wards. The Eastern European South Side wards, which
had supported Smith in 1928 and La Follette in 1924, gave Roosevelt
nearly three-fourths of its votes. The North Side, a mix of second-
and third-generation German and Irish blue-collar workers proved to
be the second strongest Roosevelt area, with ward totals ranging be-
tween 62 and 71 percent. The work of Lawrence and his committee
also paid off in the city's Italian wards. Ignoring Un1'one’s endorse-
ment of Hoover, Italians in Bloomfield, East Liberty, and the Lower
Hill District gave asubstantial majority to the Democrats. Only the
black voters, among all workers, failed to produce the expected vic-
tory. To be sure, nearly two-thirds of the vote in the Third Ward went
to Roosevelt, but the area contained blacks, Iews, Italians, and small
numbers of other ethnic groups. It was, in fact, the most integrated
section of the city in 1930. Republican Councilman Iames Malone’s
Fifth Ward, in contrast, nearly two-thirds black in 1930, gave a slight
majority of its votes to Hoover. Blacks were moving toward the Demo-
cratic party, but more work remained to be done.37

The extent of the Roosevelt victory in Pittsburgh may be judged
by the fact that in only one of the more afiluent wards, the Fourteenth,
could Hoover claim a substantial victory. In addition, one Democratic
candidate for U.S. senator, four for U.S. representative, and six for
the state legislature all carried the county. The Republican machine
held only three of the wards it normally carried. ”T he Republican
party is dead,” a jubilant Lawrence told a group of party followers at
the Magee Building headquarters the day after the election. He added

Crumbs No More l> 55

prophetically, ”All that remains is to put in the last nail in next year's
mayors race.”38 Realizing that all the elements of a Democratic take-
over were now present, Lawrence could not wait for the next race
to begin.

V

Lawrence and Guffey moved quickly in 1933 to consolidate their
gains and prepare for the fall campaign. They attended Roosevelt's
inauguration and met briefly with him. A record of their conversa-
tion has not been preserved, but Roosevelt lost no time in rewarding
his two Pennsylvania supporters. Guffey, as the top Democrat in the
state, assumed control of all federal patronage, while Lawrence, work-
ing through the Democratic State Committee, would dispense all fed-
eral and state patronage in western Pennsylvania. Party loyalty would
now be rewarded with jobs. Lawrence himself was named district col-
lector of internal revenue in recognition of his efforts in the 1932 cam-
paign. His new post provided him with a modest income and freed
him from the day-to-day operations of his insurance company, which
continued to struggle on the brink of bankruptcy. He could now de-
vote more time to building the Democratic party.

Upon his return from Washington, Lawrence, eager to begin what
promised to be an enjoyable campaign, called a meeting of the city
Democratic leaders to discuss possible candidates for the upcoming
mayoral race. Several names surfaced, including those of his 1931 run-
ning mate, Tom Daugherty, a jury commissioner; his longtime friend
and political ally jimmy Kirk; his 1931 campaign manager, William N.
McNair, a perennial candidate ; and Lawrence himself. Lawrence, who
initially supported Kirk, waited to hear the opinions of others before
presenting his case. When it became clear that little enthusiasm ex-
isted for Kirk, Lawrence accepted the will of the majority. It was an
approach that was to become standard for him.

Daugherty, the reluctant, often missing candidate from the 1931
county commissioners’ race, declined to run again, leaving the field
clear for McN air and Lawrence. Each supported the other. Lawrence
attempted to disqualify himself on the grounds that the defeat of Al
Smith in 1928 and his own loss in 1931 proved what he had long sus-
pected—that Catholicism continued to be a formidable political lia-
bility. McNair was not convinced, however, and continued to seek
support for the party chairman, insisting that he himself would not
be a candidate again after his five previous unsuccessful attempts at
seeking office. Eventually, after calling a number of meetings and

Published by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, Pa., 15260
Copyright © 1988, University of Pittsburgh Press

All rights reserved

Fefler and Simons, Inc., London

Manufactured in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Weber, Michael P.
Don't call me boss.

Includes index.

1. Lawrence, David Leo, 1889-1966.
2. Pennsy1vania—Govemors—Biography. 3. Mayors-
Pennsylvania—Pittsburgh—Biography. 4. Pennsylvania-
Politics and government——1865—195o. 5. Pennsylvania-
Politics and government-—1951— . 6. Pittsburgh (Pa.)
—Politics and government. I. Title.
F155.3.L385W42 1988 974.8’o43’o924 [B] 87-15166
ISBN 0-8229-3565-1
ISBN 0-8229-5397-8 (pbk.)

56 <1 Don't call me boss

enlisting the help of state legislators and delegates to the 1932 Demo-
cratic National Convention, Lawrence managed to persuade McNair
to change his mind and agree to be a candidate.

It has been suggested that Lawrence and the Democratic leaders
never expected McNair to win in November. Indeed, the reaction of
McNair himself following his victory appeared to be one of disbelief.
The evidence, however, indicates that Lawrence carefully and cor-
rectly assessed political conditions in Pittsburgh in 1933 and concluded
that McNair was the man to capitalize upon the situation. Past prac-
tices had been to select a sacrifice to maintain the pretense of an open
race. Obviously any willing body would do. For the my first time in re-
cent history, however, party leaders selected a candidate with par-
ticular attributes in mind and went out of their way to ensure his
cooperation. He was just the man to appeal to independents and un-
happy Republicans. In prior campaigns he managed to remain free
of the taint of collusion with the Republican bosses by running as
a loner. He was a Protestant and, although a lifelong Democrat, a
Pennsylvania blue blood. Born in Middletown, Pennsylvania, he at-
tended a private military academy, Gettysburg College, and the Uni-
versity of Michigan Law School. He opened a law oflfice in Pittsburgh
in 1914. Debonair, handsome, and never at a loss for a quotable com-
ment, he proved to be an attractive candidate. His business and so-
cial acquaintances were Republicans, and he appeared to present no
threat to the middle and upper classes. The previous campaigns, even
though unsuccessful, gave him instant name recognition, if not credi-
bility. Finally, his unyielding advocacy of Henry George's single tax
philosophy added to his reputation as a charming if somewhat ec-
centric intellectual.

Not content with selecting him, Lawrence, acting as campaign
manager, engineered every facet of the McNair campaign. He began
by educating him on the issues such as housing conditions and the
state of the city's water supply. Lawrence hired Eddie Iones, Coyne’s
hard-hitting former speech writer, as publicity man, who, over the
protests of the candidate, breathed some life into the campaign.”

Lawrence's old-time foe John Henry also declared his candidacy
for the party nomination. The Democrats, however, were able to avoid
their own internal division in spite of his attempt to resurrect the
old charge of Lawrence's subservience to Coyne, Lawrence, having
evidently learned from the 1931 campaign, acted immediately to put
the charge to rest. There could not be an alliance between Demo-
crats and Republicans, he declared, for their interests were poles apart.
He promised to oppose Coyne, Mellon, and all their candidates.“

Crumbs No More [> 57

McNair, although he preferred to discuss the advantages of the
single tax, used the best ]ones rhetoric to attack Coyne and Mellon
at every opportunity. ”For when the underlying characteristics of the
two men are considered, they will be found to have much in com-
mon. Their circumscribed horizons, their limited social vision, their
refusal to regard political power as anything except an instrument
for personal material gain, their methods of achieving and retaining
power—are all about the same.” He then accused Coyne of becoming
”a Frankenstein creature, mad with and for power, caring neither for
public opinion or public favor. . . . Coyneism must be eliminated once
and for all/'41

The message was clear. If Lawrence had earlier struck a marriage
of convenience with Coyne, the divorce was now final. Although the
two maintained a warm personal relationship throughout their lives,
they established a comfortable distance in all political matters. The
Democratic organization would settle for the Republican crumbs no
more.

The rout of the disorganized Republican party in the 1933 mayor-
alty race proved comparatively easy. Mayor Kline's conviction and
resignation shocked the party. Acting Mayor Iohn Herron could not
fill the vacuum, and the usual Republican factionalism emerged. Once
again party leaders could not agree on a candidate, and there were
three contenders in the primary: Herron, Coyne’s choice; Ioseph Mack-
rell, the register of wills, running as an independent Republican; and
P. I. McArdle, a member of the city council.

Coyne became the key issue of the primary campaign, with Mack-
rell and McArdle attempting to outdo each other, and the Demo-
crats, in their attacks on him. They continuously ripped Coyne, Her-
ron, and each other. Herron, for his part, found himself in the no-win
position of defending a machine over which he had little control. An
indictment in August of Coyne, his brother, several police officers,
and twenty-two other Republican officials on vote fraud charges made
a difficult task almost impossible.

The arrogant organization, however, refused to lower its profile
and continued its bullying and blundering ways. Two weeks before
the primary election, for example, Republican ward chairmen began
a drive to raise funds by assessing city employees a fee to be used
in the purchase of poll tax receipts. The ”contributions” ranged from
five dollars for city laborers to fifty dollars for police and fire captains.
”Macing,” as it was known, although illegal, was an accepted practice
in Pittsburgh politics, but it was usually handled more discreetly.
Within one week of the ”collect” order, two of the city's newspapers

58 <1 Don’t call me boss

had received substantial evidence and revealed the effort to their read-
ers. Employees were told to kick in or lose their jobs. The effort al-
legedly yielded $1,900 before being reported to the local press.“

In spite of Herron’s difficult position as the whipping boy for the
past transgressions of the party, he defeated his badly divided opposi-
tion in the fall primary. The party's superiority in manpower and am-
ple funding, provided mainly by the Mellon family, proved too much
to overcome. McNair also won his party's primary, but the similari-
ties ended there.43 The Republican party in decline and the ascend-
ing Democratic party perhaps crossed paths at this point, with the
Republican plunge accelerating almost daily.

The first scandal of the election broke in September when it was
revealed that nearly 2o,ooo potential voters in the Coyne-controlled
Fifth Ward had been assessed a poll tax. Fewer than 6, 5oo families
resided in the ward. Among those assessed was Colonel Iames An-
derson, a long deceased benefactor of Andrew Carnegie. Within two
weeks Leo Riordan, a county assessment investigator, uncovered 268
new ”voters” in the Second Ward, including: ten men who gave a Penn
Avenue speakeasy as their home; twelve persons listed as residents
of a notorious Tunnel Street dive; one man assessed as living at 3300
Penn Ave-—the site of a billboard; other assessed ”voters” also sup-
posedly residing at warehouses, empty lots, a foundry, or in service
stations; a number, not surprisingly, were also registered more than
once at several addresses.“

The Pittsburgh Press, now solidly in the McNair camp, dusted
off its 1931 anti-Republican tactics and ran photographs of the alleged
places of residence. It also issued its own charges, claiming that the
Republican organization maced city employees in both the Ninth and
Twelfth wards, and ran a series of editorial cartoons depicting the
corruption of the Coyne organization.“

Perhaps most indicative of the Republican decline was the reluc-
tance of the GOP city council candidates to acknowledge their affilia-
tion with their own party. Their posters carried all kinds of appeals
for support, but nothing to show that they were Republicans.“

McNair, meanwhile, proved to be the ideal candidate. He de-
lighted in the attention heaped upon him and responded with a genu-
ine warmth. lumping aboard the Roosevelt bandwagon, he canvased
the city night after night. The campaign strategy devised by Law-
rence and a small but growing group of supporters worked brilliantly.
Fred Weir, assigned to travel with McNair, explained how the plan
worked. "T he Republicans would hold one big meeting per night while
we held half a dozen. . . . On the night, for example that Herron . . .

Crumbs No More l> 59

held a big meeting at the Duquesne Gardens . . . McNair talked to
more people than Herron did. At maybe six places. . . . We would just
run in and say a few words and they would roar and we would leave.
There was nothing significant said/'47

When he did speak, McNair’s standard themes included attacks
on Coyne, Mellon, the utilities, and high trolley fares, praise for FDR
and the New Deal, and a portrayal of the local Democratic organiza-
tion as a wing of the New Deal. A vote for McNair was characterized
as a vote for Roosevelt, the NRA, WPA, and other New Deal mea-
sures. At a rally honoring Roosevelt at Kennywood Park, Lawrence,
in ]ones’s best purple prose, attacked the opponents of the President's
program. ”Out of the seemingly bottomless man-made abyss dug by
avarice, deepened by gold-mad Morgans and Mellons and protected
by statesmen of the type of Penrose and Reed, we are at last emerg-
ing, following the leadership of the men upon whom today are fo-
cused the eyes of the world.” Lawrence would frequently conclude
a speech by reading a letter from the president. ”’Dear Dave’—I want
you to get that, ‘Dear Dave,”’ he would emphasize —’“It is good to know
that you and your friends . . . are co-operating in such a splendid way
in this fight.”’ It was signed "Franklin/'43 The crowd's reaction was
unvaryingly enthusiastic.

Campaign advertisements also made clear the Roosevelt connec-
tion. A full-page ad that ran at least six times in the Pittsburgh pa-
pers prominently labeled McNair as the ”Roosevelt Candidate for
Mayor of Pittsburgh.” ”One might think,” the New York Times ob-
served just before the election, ”that it is Mr. Roosevelt who is run-
ning for Mayor of Pittsburgh.”49

The Democrats, attempting to capitalize on the successes of the
Roosevelt campaign, repeated their earlier appeal to black, ethnic,
and Protestant voters. Lawrence and McNair both courted Vann. Law-
rence and Guffey relied upon their association with Washington to
appoint five blacks to the Pittsburgh ofl‘lce of the Home Owners Loan
Corporation. Publicizing the appointments in the organization news-
paper, the New Deal News, they also pointed out that blacks, who
constituted 16 percent of the voters in Pittsburgh, received only 3 per-
cent of the patronage under the Republican administrations. Vann
began to accompany McNair and Lawrence as they spoke repeatedly
in the black wards of the city, and his newspaper broke precedent
by endorsing the entire Democratic slate of candidates just before
the election.

McNair’s appeal to Italian-Americans began when he spoke, in
Italian, to a crowd exceeding 1,500 at Carnegie Music Hall on the North

60 <1 Don’t call me boss

Side. In offering a variation of George's single tax on economic rents
to relieve the tax burden on small homeowners, he credited the idea
to an Italian, Filangeri, and Ben Franklin. The crowd roared its ap-
proval. Shortly afterward, the Italian-language newspaper Unione,
which had earlier supported Herron, began to shift toward McNair,
and it eventually called for his election.5°

Finally, the Democratic organization, wary of its image as a Catho-
lic party, attempted to win a few Protestants into its hierarchy. Coun-
cilman Fred Weir, himself a Protestant, helped in the recruiting. He
also felt that one of the reasons for his own prominence was Law-
rence's concern with the Protestant vote.51

The work of the Democratic organization and the influence of
the New Deal, of course, might still have been wasted had it not been
for the dissension within the Republican party and the work of Pitts-
burgh’s two evening newspapers, particularly the Press. The Demo-
crats had gained more than 32,000 registered voters since the last
mayoralty election. The Republicans lost almost 12,000 during the
same period, but they still held a 122,000 majority.”

Lawrence attempted to capitalize on the Republican dissatisfac-
tion by appealing to would-be defectors. He arranged to kick off the
fall campaign at the Frick School in the Fourth Ward, Coyne’s politi-
cal backyard, and personally invited McArlde, Mackrell, and other
Republican opponents of Coyne to attend. Before a record-shattering
crowd, McNair opened his address by promising to crush the Coyne
machine. He ended it by inviting his Republican guests to join in the
dismemberment. ”If elected, I and the [city council] candidates . . .
will go into office as uncontrolled and as unfettered as FDR did when
he took the oath of office on March 4th of this year.53 The strategy
succeeded almost immediately, and defectors began to line up within
the next two weeks. Lawrence, who sat in the audience in order to
gauge its reaction, might have been less pleased had he understood
the sincerity of McNair’s statement. His independence began to show
almost immediately after his inauguration.

The Democrats sweetened their call for Republican defections
by making it clear that converts would be given important places in
their newly adopted organization. Thomas Gallagher, a lifelong Re-
publican, had actually preceded McNair’s call for Republican allies
by jumping ship in Iune 1933. He eventually became a McN air can-
didate for city council. Prominent Republicans, many of whom had
little to gain from the New Deal, sensed the end of a dynasty and
rushed to place themselves in strategic positions before the new
regime took over. Among them were John Huston, the chairman of

Crumbs No More [> 61

the Tenth Ward; Republican primary candidate Iohn Mackrell; and
P. I. McArdle. But the end of Republican rule in Pittsburgh was sig-
naled by the switch in allegiance of William Magee, a former mayor
and nephew of Christopher Magee, a nineteenth-century Republi-
can boss.54

Numerous independent political groups such as the Citizens
League and the Council of Churches, and groups that had always sup-
ported Republicans, including the Firemen’s and Oilers’ unions, joined
in the stampede to endorse McNair and the five Democratic council
candidates. Mrs. R. Templeton Smith, county chairwoman of the
League of Women Voters and a bitter enemy of Lawrence's, armounced
her support of McNair one day before the election. The Pittsburgh
Press, the city's most influential newspaper, published accounts of
each defection on its front page. On one day, 29 October, it armounced
thirteen endorsements from former Republicans.55

McNair proved to be an indefatigable campaigner. In the week
before the election he spoke to nearly a dozen crowds per day, the
size of each one, according to local estimates, being somewhat larger
than the one before. Lawrence expended equal energy in organizing
the campaign but remained in the background. Excepting a few ma-
jor rallies, he seldom spoke and was usually absent from the speak-
ers’ platform. Considering the enjoyment he normally derived from
campaigning, his behavior may appear unusual. McNair, however,
was perceived as independent of the Coyne-Mellon organization, and
Lawrence was wary that his presence might resurrect the old charges
of political collusion.

The Pittsburgh Press, which had campaigned hard against Law-
rence in the 1931 county commissioners’ race, now saw no connec-
tion between him and the Republican machine. Ignoring a Coyne law-
suit for $2 5o,ooo for defamation of character, the Press ran an almost
daily editorial and cartoon campaign against Coyne and Herron, and
letters to the editor decried the lack of progress in the city, ”stand-
patism,” ”dishonesty,” and ”Coyneism” and called for a ”New Deal for
Pittsburgh/'56

The Press got its wish when McNair, all five Democratic can-
didates for city council, and the Democratic candidate for juvenile
court judge all won easily. It was the worst defeat ever to a Repub-
lican machine in Pittsburgh. The Republicans carried only seven
wards, old strongholds, and even there the margin was embarrass-
ingly small.57 It was a defeat from which the western Pennsylvania
Republicans would not recover.

The mop—up that Lawrence predicted following the Roosevelt vic-

I

62 <1 Don't call me boss

tory required a few more years than he anticipated, but by 1936 the
Democrats controlled the mayor’s office and county board of com-
missioners, held all nine seats on the Pittsburgh city council, and
most of the elected row offices. They also had elected Ioseph Guffey
to the U.S. Senate and put George Earle in the Govemofs Mansion
in Harrisburg. Lawrence became Earle’s secretary of the Common-
wealth and the dominant force in the state government. Nearly all
of the successful candidates owed allegiance to Pennsylvania's new
political boss. Perhaps most revealing was the cause for the celebra-
tion held at Democratic headquarters on 10 October 1936. Shortly after
the small band of loyal followers gathered at the Benedum-Trees Build-
ing, Lawrence, now state party chairman, announced that the local
revolution had been completed. As of that date, he proudly proclaimed,
Democratic registrants in the city of Pittsburgh outnumbered their
Republican counterparts 172,179 to 136,451. A new era in western Penn-
sylvania politics had begun.

Thus the election of 1933 may be viewed as the turning point in
the building of Democratic power in Pittsburgh. Its rise, however,
did not occur on that single day in November. Nor did it result from
largess flowing from the New Deal offices in Washington, D.C. The
genesis of Democratic control lay rather in a complex pattern of cir-
cumstances, events, and decisions.

The economic conditions in Pittsburgh and the promise of a New
Deal by the Roosevelt administration certainly contributed to the po-
litical reversal in Pennsylvania. The party's real and potential ability
to provide jobs and social services proved to be a strong magnet. The
control of federal patronage, after the Roosevelt election, enabled the
party to provide the important quid pro quo to Democratic workers
and Republican defectors. The city and county administrations, in
addition, controlled thousands of jobs in the departments of public
works, parks, highways, and public safety. As economic conditions
deteriorated during the 19303, more and more blue-collar workers aban-
doned their old Republican ties. By 1936 a majority of the ethnic and
black wards in Pittsburgh were safely in the Democratic camp. They
remain solidly Democratic today.

Partly regulars, no doubt, were attracted by the same economic
opportunities. An increasing proportion of Democratic committee-
men received positions on the public payroll each year after 1932. All
but four of a 2 5 percent sample served with the WPA, most as fore-
men or supervisors, sometime during the Depression. A similarly high
proportion of Democratic ward chairmen earned their livelihoods in
the public sector.53

Crumbs No More [> 63

Public funds and occupational opportunities were clearly crucial
in turning the city's blue-collar population into Democrats. However,
a substantial proportion of the upper classes of western Pennsylvania
also turned their backs on the Grand Old Party. Other factors con-
tributed. Certainly the corruption, both alleged and real, in the Re-
publican organization contributed to its demise. Eighty years of con-
trol had produced contempt for the rights of the electorate and an
inability among the Republican leadership to reform. This intransi-
gency certainly led to the election results of 1933. McNair, unlike Al
Smith and FDR, derived a substantial margin of support primarily
from the city's upper-class native white electorate, who cast their
votes against the corrupt machine.59 Its ineptness at governing the
city and county and its failure to maintain control over its own party
regulars must also be considered. Most damaging to the Republican
cause, however, was the constant feuding among its leadership. The
inability of William L. Mellon and Iames Coyne, and later Charles
Kline and Coyne, to prevent primary fights and independent Repub-
lican tickets sapped the strength of the party, eventually rendering
it impotent after 1937.

On the opposite side of the political aisle, the Democratic lead-
ers appeared to learn and gain strength with each election. Their
small group of workers, led by Lawrence, strove diligently to attract
a loyal cadre. Frequent rallies, combining both social and political
activities, produced party supporters. Lawrence's insistence upon local
organizations working at the neighborhood and even block level
brought others into the fold. As the party grew, so also did its ability
to attract funds. Excluding Republican contributions, the Democratic
party raised less than $1,000 to support its 1931 county commission-
ers’ race. By I933, aided by Michael Benedum’s $50,000 contribution,
the party raised over $100,000, opened a permanent office, and was
able to provide financial assistance to local candidates.6° The num-
ber and total amount of contributions increased with each election,
providing an important financial cushion to the party.

Lawrence's growing skill at organizing and guiding the party also
played an important part in its rise. During the 1920s he struggled
to hold together his tiny group of party regulars. One can only wonder
how often he must have despaired. That he avoided the temptation
to join the Republican majority testifies to his inner strength. His
resolve to avoid intraparty battles, although not always successful,
contributed to the growing unity of the party.

Finally, one must note the ability of the Democratic party to ex-
ploit the loss of public confidence in the Republican organization.

64 <1 Don’t call me boss

The Democrats successfully abandoned their ties with the GOP ma-
chine after 1931 and led the attack. Together with the Pittsburgh Press,
the Democratic organization branded the party of Coyne, Kline, and
Mellon as the party of corruption, indifference, and incompetence.
The indictments of the Republican leaders seemed to confirm these
charges, and the labels stuck. The Democratic party, as the Press edi-
torialized, presented ”a focal point around which can gather those who
are sick of the old order, who want government freed from utility
domination, corporation control and political scandal.”61 In offering
its New Deal for Pittsburgh, the Democratic party was happy to play
the role of savior while at the same time building its own dynasty.

Building an Organization

The Roosevelt victory in 1932 and the triumph in the municipal elec-
tion of 1933 ushered in one of modern America's most durable and
efficient urban political machines. David L. Lawrence, as its head,
remained in power until his death in 1966, and remnants of his ma-
chine continue to influence political life in the City of Steel. The Re-
publicans, in contrast, have failed to win an important election since
1938 and in several major races have not even bothered to provide a
candidate. When they do offer a candidate, the opposition is only a
token.

Political scientists have offered divergent opinions regarding the
phenomenon of boss politics in modern America. Some have argued
that, in today’s world of federally sponsored social security, unem-
ployment compensation, welfare payments, and Civil Service regula-
tions, bosses have become an anachronism. Indigent immigrants or
other needy persons no longer look to the local party for financial
or social assistance. Similarly, urban parties, stripped of thousands
of patronage positions, can no longer bargain employment security
in return for votes and party support}

A number of historians, relying upon longer-range perspectives,
have challenged this notion. Indeed, they have argued that, while
the modern boss is different from his nineteenth-century counter-
part, relying on different instruments and methods to retain his power,
he continues to exist. Moreover, rather than destroying machine poli-
tics, the Roosevelt administration infused new life into the mori-
bund urban administration by supplying the grass-roots of the party
with not only federal patronage, but also long coattails. Iames Cur-
ley, Edward Crump, Edward Kelly, Frank Hague, and Thomas Pender-
gast all benefited from the institution of the New Deal. And the as-

65

In memory of my parents,
who shared David Lawrenceis
love of Pittsburgh

66 <1 Don’t call me boss

sistance was not limited to Democrats: Republican Fiorello H. La
Guardia of New York, a strong New Deal supporter, perhaps more
than any other mayor, owed his success in part to his alliance with
Roosevelt. This liaison between the urban bosses and the adminis-
tration in Washington was nearly inevitable. ”In a sense, the New
Deal Democrats had little choice about using federal urban programs
to build their political base, for a newly mobilized urban electorate
forced them to do so. In the following years, their successors used
these programs to shape that electorate and continually modernize
and adapt the organizational base upon which their national major-
ity rested.”-°~

The experience of Lawrence and the Democratic organization in
Pittsburgh underscores the point that Roosevelt and the New Deal
did not destroy the support system of the urban political machine.
However, it also suggests that the argument that the New Deal in
fact created new machines is simplistic. Of the fifteen major mayor-
alty elections held within four years of the 1932 Roosevelt victory,
only William McNair’s in Pittsburgh and George Zimmerman’s in
Buffalo can be considered coattail victories. Interestingly, more cities
shifted from the Democratic to Republican than the reverse—four
to three—while four Republican cities remained loyal to the GOP.3
The Roosevelt coattails may have been broad enough to aid candi-
dates for the national legislature, but they did not extend to the city
administrations.

The development of a successful political organization is a com-
plex process. An analysis of the Democratic triumph in Pittsburgh
demonstrate that a number of factors were at issue. Roosevelt's popu-
larity admittedly helped, but other factors—including a moribund,
squabbling, and certainly corrupt Republican organization, disastrous
economic conditions, a successful Democratic strategy to build a
broad base of support, a well-orchestrated campaign, and an attrac-
tive candidate — must be considered. It is not suggested here that Pitts-
burgh is representative of all American cities, but the Pittsburgh case
does illustrate that the efficient, successful machine is built upon
more than the support of the lower economic classes. As such, its
power could not be destroyed when the source of financial assistance
shifted from the city to Washington.

The Democratic machine in Pittsburgh did not suddenly emerge
out of the Roosevelt victory of 1932 and take wing in the municipal
election of 1933. Democratic leadership, particularly embodied in
David L. Lawrence, worked aggressively for more than a decade to
build an organization. The twin victories of 1932 and 1933 were viewed

Building an Organization l> 67

by Lawrence as a vindication of his leadership and just rewards for
a long, hard-fought battle. Much, however remained to be done.

Two months before Roosevelt's inauguration in 1933, Joseph Guf-
fey rented a two-room suite in the Washington, D.C., Southern Of-
fice Building. The lettering on the door indicated that the suite served
as the ”Pennsylvania Headquarters.” Presided over by Guffey and run
by an aide, Richard Bailey, and several stafi persons, the o1°fice—the
only one of its kind in the city——existed solely to provide patronage
to the residents of Pennsylvania. Capitalizing on his recognition by
Iames Farley as the ”original Roosevelt man” in Pennsylvania, Guffey
assumed command of all federal jobs in the state. By September 1934,
he had placed at least 500 Pennsylvanians in Washington jobs of vary-
ing federal importance, including a position as special assistant to
the attorney general for black leader Robert Vann. He also succeeded
in placing an estimated 5,000 Pennsylvanians in federal jobs at the
state level. Among the political plums Guffey managed to secure were
2, 5oo administrative positions in the Home Owners Loan Corpora-
tion, numerous positions as U.S. marshals, U.S. attorneys, postmas-
ters, and internal revenue collectors. Nearly all of the offices went
to registered Democrats. IRS positions went to the democratic state
chairman, Warren Van Dyke, and the Allegheny County chairman,
David L. Lawrencef‘ In addition Lawrence was given charge of all
federal patronage appointments in western Pennsylvania. He theo-
retically already controlled the locally fincanced jobs and within a
year would gain command of the state patronage as well. Iobs thus
became the foundation of his political regime.

Initially, the most important jobs the Democratic party had at
its disposal during the Depression were the thousands of blue-collar
positions provided by state and federal funds. During the first year
of the Roosevelt administration, 3I9,ooo Pennsylvanians, including
27,000 from Pittsburgh, secured temporary jobs through the Civil
Works Administration. When that program ended, the Relief Works
Division and Local Works Division programs, both state funded, pro-
vided more than 2o,ooo interim jobs until the Works Progress Ad-
ministration (WPA) could take effect in 1935. By that time Guffey,
now a U.S. senator, had turned the administration of all patronage
over to his colleague Lawrence, giving him virtually unquestioned
control over 150,000 jobs, including 57,000 in western Pennsylvania
alone.5 Lawrence named two Pittsburgh-based Democrats, Edward N.
Iones and Iohn Laboon, to hire the massive work force at the state
and local levels respectively. Both had been active in recent Demo-
cratic politics, although Jones had been a Republican up to 1932.

68 <1 Don't call me boss

During the first two years of its existence, the WPA spent nearly
$70 million in Allegheny County, 80 percent of which went for
workers’ wages. Projects in the area included more than 530 miles of
highway construction, nearly Ioo miles of water line and sewer proj-
ects, 81 new or renovated parks and playgrounds, construction of the
Highland Park bear pits, and more than six miles of concrete stair-
ways on the city's steep hillsides. Generally, the work in Allegheny
County fell under control of Iohn Kane, a newly elected commissioner;
Lawrence governed patronage in the city. While the two maintained
a friendly rivalry for power throughout their parallel careers, they
generally cooperated in matters of patronage. They would often ”trade
jobs” or provided work in their own territory for a favored son of the
other.6 Whether hired by Kane's forces or Lawrence's, the result was
the same: another voter in need of work received a job and owed a
debt of gratitude to the Democratic party.

”Lawrence actually never saw workers at the lower levels,” for-
mer committeeman and ward chairman Al Conway revealed. ”It all
started with the district committeeman or chairman. He was very
positive about that. Anyone who ever wrote him a letter for a job or
asked for a job was told to go see the chairman. . . . It was Iohn Dug-
gan and later Andrew ’Huck’ Fenrich’s job to make sure that the pa-
tronage system worked/'7 When Lawrence gained control of state-
wide patronage two years later, he instituted the same system.

The extent of political influence in the hiring of workers for the
WPA program in Pennsylvania during the 19303 is unclear. Charges
and countercharges were hurled between Republicans and Democrats
throughout the decade. Republicans and independent groups such as
the League of Women Voters and the anti—New Deal Pittsburgh Post-
Gazette criticized Lawrence and Guffey for attempting to set up
another Pennsylvania machine. Former Governor Pinchot charged in
a letter to Roosevelt that the WPA in Pennsylvania had ”been sold
into political bondage/'8

Democrats responded to the charges by pointing out that Re-
publicans had made municipal work a political football for nearly
half a century in the state. It was a fact of life in Pennsylvania poli-
tics. As one official told Lorena Hickok, special troubleshooter for
the WPA chairman, Harry Hopkins, ”Oh, it's plenty political here in
Pittsburgh. . . . But the Republicans would do the same thing if they
had the WPA wouldn't they?” Lawrence, reared on nineteenth-century
politics, understood and justified the use of the spoils system in terms
that the old-time bosses would have understood. The system, of
course, often threatened to get out of hand. In 1935, for example, the

Building an Organization [> 69

Democratic organization's own state relief director, Robert Iohn-
son, threatened to resign unless Democratic pressure for state jobs
was reduced. The publicity surrounding his threat forced adminis-
tration officials to agree to follow a ”hands off” policy regarding the
relief bureau. Other agencies were not so fortunate. Hickok suggested
the extent of political involvement when she reported to Hopkins,
”Our chief trouble in Pennsylvania is due to politics. From township
to Harrisburg, the state is honeycombed with politicians fighting
for the privilege of distributing patronage.” Nearly all of the state's
3,ooo WPA administrators from 1935 through 1940 were Democrats,
as were 18,019 workers classified as ”non-certified personnel”—most
of them construction project foremen. Among these political ap-
pointees was a nephew who grew up in the Lawrence household, Iack
Fitzgerald?

To Lawrence's credit, the available evidence suggests that the ma-
jority of jobs, those available to unemployed laborers, did not depend
on one’s political affiliation. A comparison of WPA employee distri-
bution in three wards reveals that jobs went where they were needed
most. In terms of the number of WPA workers residing in the ward,
the Third Ward, which was highest in four measurements of poverty
in 1940, had most, the Fourteenth, the wealthiest ward in the city,
had fewest, and the Twentieth, closest to the city average in the four
categories, stood near the center.1°

Republicans, Democrats, and independents could and did peti-
tion committeemen for job recommendations. Many, of course,
showed their gratitude by shifting to the party of Roosevelt and Law-
rence, and the rapidly growing Democratic registrations reflect these
newfound loyalties. Higher-level jobs, however, required the recom-
mendation of one’s ward chairman and active affiliation with the
Democratic party. ”I wish you would contact Mr. [John] Duggan
[Democratic party secretary]/’ Lawrence wrote his ward chairmen in
March 1935. ”Arrange with him your list of endorsements. . . .you
should keep in mind that we may not be able to follow suggestions
in order, especially in technical places. To illustrate, your first pref-
erence might be a laborer or a clerk and we may have available for
your ward a stenographer or engineering position/'11

The system worked so well that by 1935 nearly eight hundred
policemen, one thousand firemen, and three thousand craftsmen, pub-
lic works foremen, alderrnen, inspectors, and supervisors had received
their employment through the ward chairmen. Not surprisingly, the
job recipients willingly contributed time and occasionally money to
the continued success of the party. Many were former Republican

70 <1 Don’t call me boss

ward leaders and committee members who became Democrats, seek-
ing to share in the largess of the new organization. Others, correctly
viewing politics as the path to financial security, were new recruits
to the Democratic cause. Ward committee members and chairmen,
in particular, found openings for themselves and their friends on the
public payroll. Positions at the highest level, of course, required the
direct intervention of the party chairman. Any promotion or transfer
needed Lawrence's approval.”

The lone break in Lawrence's now smoothly functioning machine
proved to be his hand-picked mayor, William McNair. Attempting
to assert his independence from the organization, the mayor refused
to become involved with federal aid programs, slowing the rush to
municipal jobs among Pittsburgh's Democratic activists. By 1936 only
one-fifth of a 25 percent sample of party committeemen had found
jobs on the public payroll. In October of that year Cornelius D. Scully,
an organization man, replaced McNair as mayor, and the number of
patronage jobs increased immediately. By 1940 nearly half of the com-
mitteemen and most of the ward chairmen were on the government
payroll. The proportion of Democratic regulars on the city, county,
and state payrolls increased during the subsequent decades as the party
became more entrenched. In 1960, midway through Lawrence's term
of office as governor, nearly three-fourths of all committeemen and
one third of the committeewomen held public jobs, most with the
city of Pittsburgh. On the Republican side, less than 25 percent of
the men and I0 percent of the women worked for public agencies.
Virtually all of them held state or county jobs.”

Democratic ward chairmen were even more likely to secure pub-
lic employment: Twenty-nine of the thirty-two Democrats as com-
pared with four of the Republicans held government positions in 1960.
Chainnen also held the coveted alderman position in their home ward.
”At one time,” Fifth Ward Magistrate Iake Williams ‘recalled, ”every
chairman was also the alderman. That was his base; he could do fa-
vors for his good friends, and punish the enemy . . . the alderrnanship
gave you an elevated position/'14

As county party chairman, Lawrence clearly used his control over
patronage to build the party and reward its loyal members. He also
used it to prevent the development of any would-be opposition. In
193 5, for example, shortly after the Democrats’ third consecutive vic-
tory, he infonned all state legislators from western Pennsylvania that
local patronage would by handled by ward chairmen exclusively.”
Thus the ward chairmen, over whom Lawrence held absolute con-
trol, were strengthened, while the state legislators were prevented

Building an Organization [> 71

from building a personal following that one day might challenge Law-
rence for party control.

Committeemen and ward chairmen, of course, did not receive
their positions solely by virtue of their party philosophies. The po-
litical system, as Lawrence understood it, functioned on the basis of
well-organized ward-level politics. Following the 1933 election victory,
each ward was reorganized according to size and population. Party
workers, who were elected at the ”neighborhood” primary, were ex-
pected to remain active in the community.

The committeemen knew everybody else, because in those
days, when they were campaigning or getting new registra-
tions, they went door-to-door. They didn't get on the telephone.
One of the first things they would do is to try to get as many
new registrations as they could, and try to get people to change
parties. . . . And then we would have a big ward meeting or
they'd have some kind of fund-raiser to cover the expense of
election day. Lawrence would come to that and speak. It was
kind of a pep rally. Then the chairman would have meetings
with all the committee people. They would all have street lists,
and the committee would give one to each payroller [in the
ward] and they would go around and ask the people to vote for
the candidate. . . . Then, on election day, they'd be at the polls
and make sure that the people who they felt pretty sure were
going to vote our way . . . got . . . to the polls. . . . They didn't
work their regular jobs on election day.“

In addition to registering voters, campaigning, and transporting
voters, workers at the ward and district (precinct) level were expected
to raise funds. Each ward, depending on its size, population, and num-
ber of committee members, was assessed a quota. ”In our ward,” one
chairman related, ”it was sixty dollars per district. We had thirty dis-
tricts, so our quota was $1,800.00.” This was taken to headquarters
and exchanged for five-dollar certificates to be distributed to poll
watchers, who would then cash them in. Workers on the public pay-
roll were also expected to contribute to the party.”

During the next thirty years city and county workers in all but
a few protected departments remained dependent upon the party.
The police bureau, in particular, became a cherished political plum
of the ward chairmen, who had the power to nominate replacements
to the force. Even with the advent of civil service, loopholes prevented
removal of the police bureau from the political arena. Magistrate Iake

72 <1 Don't call me boss

Williams explained, ”Even when they had the Civil Service, they had
a loophole in it. You could pick from the highest three [on the Civil
Service test], now, if you eliminated the first three, that gave you the
pick of the next three. You could go all the way down to the bottom
of the list. . . . If you [the ward chairman] were due to get an appoint-
ment of a Lieutenant, there's no civil service could stop it. If your
man's in it, he would get the promotion.”

Good performance in both party service and the municipal job
related to it, moreover, became an avenue of upward mobility for many
workers. An Eighth Ward committeeman, for example, had been an
unemployed steelworker when he secured his first government job
as a WPA foreman. Eventually he became a real estate appraiser for
the city board of assessors. Another comrnitteeman from the Fifteenth
Ward obtained a general foreman’s job in the WPA with Lawrence's
personal intervention. In 1936 he went to work for the county as a
bridge worker and in 194 5 joined the city police force, eventually ris-
ing to the rank of captain. Iake Williams, brother of the Fifth Ward
chairman, ”Pappy” Williams, experienced a similar if more meteoric
rise. Beginning as a seventeen-year-old truck driver for the city, he
landed a clerk's job in the state inheritance tax department through
his brother's influence. Several years later he became a tipstaff to Judge
Homer Brown of the Court of Common Pleas and eventually suc-
ceeded his brother, upon his death, as ward chairman. Iohn McGrady,
who became a county commissioner, began his political career as a
clerk in a county office primarily because he was an asset to the de-
partmental baseball team. Nearly every judge in Allegheny County
served the party in one capacity or another during the early years of
their careers.”

Clearly, patronage, the party workers it supplied, and the funds
it helped raise became the foundation upon which the Democratic
party in Pittsburgh was built. Even after the demise of the WPA and
other federal programs, Lawrence controlled thousands of ciy and state
jobs and could usually call upon Commissioner Iohn Kane for a county
position when needed. The longevity of the party as the dominant
power in the region, however, depended upon other factors, which
assumed greater importance as the economy recovered during World
War II and after.

V

By mid 1934 finding workers ceased to be a problem for the Demo-
cratic party. It was now blessed with an abundance of support, from
temporary election workers through high-level executive committee

Building an Organization [> 73

personnel. As he had in the past, Lawrence continued tinkering with
the party structure, but now he faced new problems. A permanent
structure had to be built that would enable the party to deliver on
its promises and capitalize on its newfound numerical strength.
Shortly after McNair’s inauguration in Ianuary 1934, Lawrence called
a meeting of the Democratic executive committee and several key
ward chairmen to wrestle with the problem of party organization.
Working with ward-level maps of the city, the group divided each ward
into a number of districts depending upon size, population, and un-
usual physical barriers such as hills and valleys, and decided on an
appropriate number of committeemen for each. In all, nearly sixteen
hundred of these became the party's eyes and ears at the local level.
In addition, individuals who received employment through their dis-
trict committee or ward chairman operated as block-level workers
in their own neighborhoods.

Committeemen and women carried the responsibility for recruit-
ing voters and party workers, for organizing campaign rallies in their
districts, for raising funds, and providing services for voters. During
the Depression years these services were those normally linked to
nineteenth—century political machines——jobs, economic assistance,
and help cutting through government bureaucracy, when needed. One
Fifth Ward committeeman, for example, purchased fifteen tons of coal,
had it dumped in the street, and invited local residents to help them-
selves. He also purchased barrels of oil to be used for lighting by those
unable to pay their electricity bills. ”W e had Iohrmy Elmer in my neigh-
borhood in the Hill,” Iake Williams reported. ”Elmer Square is named
after him. He would give baskets to the poor, and loads of coal.” Oth-
ers provided food and clothing to the needy. An Eighth Ward com-
mitteeman solicited local businesses for contributions of food and
secured a number of jobs at a nearby baking company for area resi-
dents. Two Twelfth Ward committeemen held street fairs, bake sales,
and other fund-raisers to provide aid to their neighbors. Soliciting as-
sistance from the district fire captain, they rode through the ward
in the department pumper each month collecting food for the local
unemployed. Later, as economic conditions improved, municipal ser-
vices replaced personal goods in the grab bag of the committeeman
and ward chairman. "We could help get a ballfield, or a swimming
pool or a street paved,” said Al Conway, chairman of the Nineteenth
Ward. Committee members ”were the ones to see if you needed a zon-
ing variance to put an addition on to your house/'20

Above the committee members were the elected ward chairmen
representing the city's thirty-two political wards. Many, during the

74 <1 Don’t call me boss

years of Democratic ascendancy, operated their wards as semi-inde-
pendent fiefdoms, trading votes for jobs and other political favors from
party headquarters. Some, such as Iames Lavuola of the powerful Third
Ward, appointed police, firemen, and other municipal workers. They
personally selected and controlled their own committeemen and
women and frequently ignored the wishes of the party hierarchy. The
difficulties between McNair and the organization that broke out
shortly after his inauguration prevented Lawrence from acting to limit
their independence. He instead maintained a policy of attempting to
minimize difficulties within the party by ignoring their indescretions
until such times as they could be quietly replaced.

Most ward chairmen, however, delighted to represent the major-
ity party for the first time in their lives, were only too happy to ac-
cept directions from headquarters. They performed their tasks zeal-
ously and considered it an honor when Lawrence or one of the other
top brass attended their ward functions. Several times a year Law-
rence hosted a dinner for the chairmen, inviting them to discuss prob-
lems in their district. Writing in the shorthand learned years ago at
St. Mary's, he would make notes to be directed to the appropriate
department head. Corrective action often occurred within days of the
meeting.-"*1 The chairmen, along with their committees, attended a
mass meeting annually to hear the choices of the party's executive
committee for various elective ofiices. Although they had no vote
in the matter, they always sustained the endorsements with long, en-
thusiastic applause and pledged their efforts toward victory at the
polls.

The committeemen and the ward chairmen sustained the party
at the grass-roots level. They were crucial to its continued existence
as the dominant party in western Pennsylvania. Lawrence recognized
their importance and worked diligently to maintain touch with the
workers in the field. But he reserved the decision-making process for
himself and a small group at the top that constituted the city’s and
the county's executive committees. The city group included Lawrence,
Iimmy Kirk, the city treasurer, State Senator Ioe Barr, and several
influential ward chairmen. The mayor joined the executive commit-
tee when Cornelius Scully assumed office in 1935. The somewhat
larger county committee consisted of Lawrence, the Democratic
county commissioners, the officers of the county committee, seven
county government department heads, and the chairwoman of the
women's division of the party. Immediately following the November
general election, these committees met to discuss all potential can-
didates for city, county, and state offices for the coming year. The

Building an Organization l> 75

meeting was always fairly harmonious: the leaders made their recom-
mendations; the candidates were discussed; and decisions, nearly
always in favor of the recommended candidates, were arrived at by
consensus rather than voting. All members of the executive commit-
tee had a voice, and occasionally a surprise candidate was suggested.
”T hat happened only about twice in twenty years,” recalled Iames
Knox, a former county chairman. ”I [once] said, ‘W e ought to consider
Robert Vandervort.’ And I recall Mr. Lawrence saying, ’Who the hell
is he?’ and then we talked about him. . . . We came back at another
meeting and somehow Vandervort just rose to the top. He was a Prot-
estant and he was from the north end of the county. Eventually it
was unanimous.”22

The Vandervort experience aside, Lawrence remained the domi-
nant force at the slating caucuses, and the apparent openness of the
meetings should not deceive one into perceiving a meeting of coequals.
The force of his political presence clearly swayed the weaker mem-
bers of the group, although he often withheld his opinion until last
to determine which possible nominees had the strongest support. By
developing a potential list of candidates prior to the executive ses-
sion, Lawrence, Kane, and a few others managed to retain control of
the nominating process. Candidates were chosen for their loyalty to
the party and their ability to give the ticket geographic, ethnic, reli-
gious, and ideological balance. Fred Weir, for example, became a can-
didate for county court judge because of his religion. Kirk invited him
to headquarters, where he was asked to help Lawrence and Kirk find
a Protestant candidate. ”Believe it or not, they took out the yellow
section of the phone book under attorneys and [were] going through
that. . . . We got down to the W's and they said ‘You're going to have
to run.’ . . . I didn't want to run, but I had to and damned near won.”
Lawrence occasionally became obsessed with the notion of a balanced
ticket, as in 193 5 when he produced an ”all nations” slate of candidates
for the countywide elections. The slate he described as a ”beautiful
all American ticket” consisted of candidates of Italian, Polish, and
Irish descent, a Protestant, a Iew, and a representative of organized
labor.” City council membership was distributed geographically even
though members were elected at large. The council always had jew-
ish, Italian, black, and Protestant ”seats.” Eventually a female seat was
added with the election of Erma De Cenzo. (Several members were
usually Irish-American, as were the majority of the ward chairmen.)
When a vacancy occurred, special care was taken to fill it with a per-
son of similar ethnic or racial background or representing the same
special interest. Thus, for example, Pat Pagan was selected to replace