I Never Had It Made (22 page)

My worries were constantly lulled whenever these questions came up in board meetings, and Bill Hudgins and Irv Altman, our white executive vice-president who had a thorough banking background, would reassure us with what seemed to be perfectly logical explanations. At the same time, I was hearing warnings coming from respected friends and business associates who were telling me that I would have terrible regrets if I didn't check out what was going on at the bank. People who were knowledgeable in the financial community were persistently telling me that the word was around that the bank was headed for serious problems.

I couldn't help feeling uncomfortable at constantly hearing all these warnings. But I had a lot of confidence in Bill Hudgins and his administration of the bank.

One day in 1968, one of the most powerful men in Wall Street circles bluntly said to me: “If you want to save Freedom National Bank, the only way you are going to be able to do it is to take it over and clean house. You are in serious trouble.”

Shortly thereafter, I was leaving the bank one afternoon and met Bob Murray, our in-house attorney, and a former employee of the bank, Hector Williams.

We began talking and they said that they hated to bring up a negative subject but I had better check out the administration at Freedom. I smiled and told them that I thought everything was going well even if there might be a few problems.

“Jack, all we're asking you to do is to take a look at five specific loans. We'll call them for you and you just look into them, and if you are still satisfied that conditions are fine, we'll forget about it.”

I couldn't ignore a challenge like that.

From that day forward, I began to seek out sincerely concerned staffers and to ask questions. I soon realized that my informal investigations could prove very distressing for some of the employees who wanted to cooperate but who were afraid that if they went too far, they might get caught in a cross fire between me, as chairman of the board, and their day-to-day boss, Mr. Hudgins, the president of the bank. It was late in February, 1971, when I began really digging in. Never having been a banker and having had no experience with such matters, I began talking with Madeline Walburg who was in charge of the mortgage department. I have to say that this lady played a heroic role in what turned out to be a dramatic behind-the-scenes struggle to literally save the bank. When I first began to talk with Madeline, I found her eager to help, and surprised that I was interested. It was valuable to me to learn that she had been deeply concerned about conditions for some time. Though she was a key employee, she was still an employee, and she had decided not to stick her neck out by calling attention to certain problems since she didn't think the directors were really interested anyway. I learned that there were several times when she had sat in on meetings and heard questions raised by us with management. She said she shuddered to hear the answers which were given to soothe us. That was when I began to realize how much more fully informed directors of a corporation should make themselves.

There was one other factor involved in the false sense of security I experienced toward management. As is their duty with all banks, various representatives and examiners from the office of the Comptroller of Currency in New York would come around to the bank periodically and check out our situation. I had made it my business to question some of these examiners, raising the question whether our operations were sound. I kept getting the reply that “Things are not as bad as you think they are,” or something equivalent. Yet I knew that we were writing off thousands of dollars in bad loans at each examination.

One day, one of the examiners came to visit us. Someone told me he was the best they had in the state. I took him aside and really laid it on the line. I said that I had a growing suspicion that the Comptroller's office was patting us on the back when they should be hitting us over the head with a club. I told him that I thought we were not being judged by the same standards that would have been applied if ours were a white bank. I said that they were doing us no favor if they were telling us everything was all right when things were not right. The response from him was amazing. He never admitted it, of course, but it became apparent that my suspicions had validity. We were being handled with kid gloves because certain officials did not want to get themselves accused or suspected of persecuting a black institution. From that day on the Comptroller's office began to focus in on what we were doing right and what we were doing wrong, and it became absolutely clear to me that we were in trouble.

By this time my concern about the bank had become a major preoccupation. I found myself losing sleep nights and involved in a great deal of activity at the bank trying to make certain that I had a strong basis for making a move. It happened that during this period I was having a very serious health crisis. My breathing had become constricted at times to the extent that I could not bear the pressure. I was having trouble with my legs and my doctors were unable to pinpoint the problem, unable to tell whether there was a direct relationship to my diabetes. The more involved I got with the bank problems, the sicker I became.

My personal health wasn't my sole concern. I had to give serious attention to the position in which my one-man investigation was placing Madeline Walburg. The fact that I was checking out the situation in the mortgage department and that she was spending a great deal of time assisting me had to have come to the attention of Mr. Hudgins, to whom she was directly responsible. Madeline didn't complain to me, but it was obvious that the situation was far from comfortable for her. She knew quite well that she could have lost her job and that, even if I went to bat for her as I would have, the whole affair could become messy. As for me, I had decided that I could no longer go it alone in my investigation. I decided there were two steps I must take. I had to confront Bill Hudgins frankly and confirm what I was certain he already knew—that I had serious questions in my mind about the administration of the bank and intended to get to the bottom of matters. Also, I had to advise some of my fellow directors about the probing I had done, the information I had gained, and get them involved.

I phoned Bill Hudgins at his home one Saturday. Our New York apartment is in the same neighborhood as the Hudginses' home. I told Bill I had to talk with him. When I arrived at his place, I asked him if he wanted Mrs. Hudgins in on the conversation. I did this because we had been longtime friends. Bill said that it would not be necessary to involve his wife. I told him all of my concerns and how I had been investigating. Bill assured me that the bank was in great shape, that I had been grossly misinformed, and he told me that everything about the operation was on the up and up.

I've said that my fellow board members didn't know about my probe of the bank. There was one exception, and I have to give this lady credit because she was a tower of strength to me. Mrs. Rose Morgan is the founder and owner of the Rose-Meta System of Beauty which operates on a national level. Rose, a dear friend of many years, is an amazingly gifted woman. She has an inborn talent for good business operation. Rose can cut straight through the niceties to the heart of the matter, and she does this because she doesn't believe in wasting time or sentiment. I had not asked her to do anything to help me in my investigation, but I certainly am glad that I chose her early as a confidante.

Having talked with Bill Hudgins, I now felt it appropriate to bring in the total board for consideration of the state of the bank. Here, of course, I was to become more aware of what I had always known—that there are cliques on boards of directors. Of course, there were some members who were still very much committed to Bill, and, unfortunately, he began to get out the word that I was out to get him and that I was being vindictive about it. That really bothered me because my only concern was the welfare of the bank and how awful it would be for so many people all over the country if the bank went under.

Marty Edelman, a lawyer friend of mine and member of the firm of Battle, Fowler, Stokes and Keel, and Charlie Jaffin, the senior partner of that firm, responded to my request for help and guidance during this period. Through them we were able to chart a proper course in getting to the basics of what was wrong with Freedom National Bank's operation.

Before the problems at the bank were resolved, a sad thing happened. Madeline Walburg, without whom I could not have got the probe going, had become increasingly ill, nervous and upset. She suffered from high blood pressure. I am sure she was worried about what might happen to her. A couple of times she had told me she wanted to quit. But Bob Murray, who himself was putting his job on the line, joined forces with me to persuade her that without her help, our efforts might be in vain. So she continued to help, and one day a blood vessel burst in her head. She died a few days later. Madeline's death hurt me as much as if she had been a member of my own family. I think her family and friends should be proud of the contribution Madeline made to a very important matter affecting black people.

Bob Murray also deserves a lot of gratitude. His attitude was that if he lost his job, so be it. He wanted to see the bank problems straightened out, and that was his main desire. People like Madeline and Bob only strengthen the conviction I've held over the years that the people who want to shut white people of goodwill and dedication out of black life and black affairs are so wrong.

As the board continued to check out my own investigation, Bill Hudgins and I really lost faith in each other. Our friendship became a thing of the past. I made it clear to him that, as far as I was concerned, there would have to be a drastic change in administration. Some of the board members still found it hard to believe that Bill could do any wrong. I can't blame them. I won't soon forget the utter faith I had in the man.

The concern we all had at the bank—even after a majority of the board agreed that there had to be a change in administration—was that if Bill was summarily dismissed there would be the strong hint of scandal which could badly hurt the bank. Furthermore, we could not, in fairness, say that he had done anything illegal or dishonest, and he had worked very hard over the years in the interest of the bank. He was respected by many in the community.

Furthermore, being a black bank we were in a delicate position in the business community. On the one hand, we did not want the white banking community to coddle us, to overlook mistakes we made because we were a black bank. The more they had patted us on the back where we were wrong, the deeper we had become involved in our problems. Our doors could have been closed because of this kind of paternalism. We wanted to mature and grow toward an equality of experience and ability. Otherwise we would always be subservient. Yet on the other hand, with regard to certain internal affairs, there are some ways that we had to be different because we were a black bank. Without being loose in policies, we had to be a lot less rigid than white banks have been under similar circumstances. A delicate balance had to be struck. This is what we had in mind when we settled the matter of the need for a new administration. Some people may criticize us for it or not understand it, but we believe we did the right thing. We accepted Bill Hudgins' resignation as president. We brought in a new president, Bob Boyd, formerly of the Los Angeles Rams, a brilliant football player in his athletic days and a businessman of proven ability.

The thing we did which might be called unorthodox is that we refused to allow Bill Hudgins to resign completely from the bank. He became vice-chairman of the board. He had no jurisdiction in areas where some of us had questioned his judgment. But he could still contribute his very definite skills to our growth and development. The job Bob Boyd has done and is doing to turn Freedom around covers a wide range. For example, he has made a number of personnel changes and works closely with staff. He attends various outside meetings which are helpful to him in the administration of the bank, and he often invites members of the board to accompany him. But mainly he has tightened up procedures throughout the bank and raised the standards of our operation considerably.

As it is probably quite obvious, the telling of this episode in my personal and business life is painful to relate. I suppose I take the chance of being misunderstood for telling it. I have told it because I feel there are lessons to be learned from it by many people—black and white.

XVIII

Hope and Disillusionment in White Politics

T
he Democrats have traditionally been the party that blacks have given their allegiance to. Despite my reservations about John Kennedy, his brief administration turned into a period of hope. However, although I respected Kennedy for his articulate concern when he was forced to face issues, I felt that it was Robert Kennedy who was the driving force behind the advances made on civil rights issues. It seemed to me that Robert Kennedy had more integrity on racial issues and that he wanted to be more bold and forthright.

But at least there was progress during these years. The Kennedys pushed implementation of the rights of blacks established in the earlier Supreme Court decisions on bussing and schools. Eisenhower had said that it was his duty to recognize the Supreme Court ruling on school segregation but that he saw no necessity to go to any lengths to speak out for it or to move to enforce it. When he finally sent the troops to Little Rock, I believe he acted because his West Point mentality was angered by Faubus' defiance of orders rather than out of any deep moral conviction. But when John and Robert Kennedy took on Governor Wallace, I think they were acting on the belief that black rights had become top-priority national business.

The assassination of the President was a great shock. I did not idolize Kennedy as many did, but his death was a great loss. Later when Robert Kennedy was killed, I felt the same. The two men did much for the cause of black rights. Furthermore, when John Kennedy was assassinated, I was deeply concerned because of grave doubts about the future of blacks under Lyndon Johnson. His ties to the South and his closeness to men like Senator Russell made many of us fear that the gains made under Kennedy would be lost. Then, when Johnson began implementing pro–civil rights legislation, I suspected that this was political sleight-of-hand to disguise a subtle Southern strategy. However, when the 1964 campaign came, I worked to have Johnson reelected because of the dangers of the Goldwater politics, as I said before. But my uneasiness about Johnson continued.

The events in Selma, Alabama, found me at the height of my dissatisfaction. The atrocities against civil rights activists, the brutalization of peaceful marchers, the deaths of blacks over the years such as Evers, Till, Chaney, deeply angered me. I had spent a weekend in Mississippi making speeches in which I blasted the Johnson administration for its seemingly don't-give-a-damn attitude toward these terrible events. I had pointed out at mass rallies in the North and South that it takes more than a big job, big talk, and big gestures to wipe out the bad taste of a thirty-year-old record of adamant opposition to civil rights. I mentioned that the same statesman who calls for Congressional allegiance to civil rights from the White House is the same politician who only last year voted to make it necessary for two-thirds of the Senate to curb the filibuster.

Finally there was the murder of the white minister, the Reverend James Reeb. I actually felt a swift rush of anger when I learned that the President had sent flowers to the hospital room of the dying Reverend Reeb and that when he received word of the young minister's death, he had sent a jet plane to be at the disposal of Mrs. Reeb. It was no time for flowers and public relations moves, I felt. It was time to send into Alabama the same kind of force we had dispatched to Vietnam.

However, my attitude toward Johnson underwent a drastic change when I heard his address to Congress following Reeb's death. I felt that he offered to the world the essence of the finest leadership which could come from the highest seat of power in the world. He was soft-spoken in his description of his personal goals for freedom. He was eloquent as he outlined personal views about the rights of all Americans. He was courageous and forthright as he dared to repeat the official chant of the movement: “We shall overcome.” He was almost savagely strong when he let the Congress know that he was staking his leadership in the free world upon their response. I felt high praise for Mr. Johnson.

I wasn't always happy with President Johnson in the White House, of course, but I have to admit that he did a courageous job of translating into hard legislation some of the key issues of the civil rights movement. Many blacks remained suspicious of LBJ because he was a Texan and his early voting record was antiblack. But there's something really unusual about a Southerner who was once a dyed-in-the-wool states' righter and who, for whatever reason, changes his mind. Somehow it seems that those from below the Mason-Dixon Line who come over to the liberal cause bring with them a firmness and sincerity that Northern liberals don't have. Harry Truman displayed some of this and President Johnson even more. Some cynics go around saying, “Oh, well, you know, they just did it to get the black vote” or “Every move he makes is political.” They seldom allow for the possibility that a man like Johnson, for years a big-time clubhouse politician with his loyalties tied to a regional constituency, could grow into the consciousness that national responsibility has been suddenly thrust upon him. This meant that he must widen his views to attempt to be President of all the people and to do those things, no matter how foreign to his past instinct, which would serve the best interests of the whole country. I believe Lyndon Johnson made the leap to this kind of awareness. I believe that, with his tremendous sense of history, he truly wanted to leave a record of radical achievement as President.

LBJ's Southern background had something to do with the force he exerted when he became a civil rights President. This personal theory is grounded on my own experience in baseball. Some Southern-bred ballplayers who were initially appalled at the idea of having a black teammate turned out to be allies when they realized the economic gains for baseball. When you strip away all the demagogic talk on both sides and get right down to the real nitty-gritty, the black and white Southerners have the basis for a much more genuine understanding of each other and realization of their absolute need for each other on a partnership level than Northern blacks and whites. There was a popular saying once that in the North the white man didn't care how close the black man came if he didn't climb too high, and in the South the white man didn't care how high the black man climbed if he didn't come too close. This attitude has been changing in recent years. One big factor, added to the Southern white man's awakening to the fact that blacks could use their combined purchasing power as a weapon, is the new respect in Dixie for black voting strength.

There is no doubt that President Johnson played a magnificent role in the political liberation of blacks. He was able to do this because black people started demonstrating that they were determined to vote. He was also peculiarly qualified to bring about change because, unlike his predecessor, he had a magic touch with the Senators and representatives with whom he had related so skillfully for so many years. They accepted him as one of them because he had become a giant among them, in terms of power and the ability to cajole, persuade, threaten, and negotiate.

But Johnson's contribution could only be backed up by the people. I remember after the President's speech after the death of Reeb how strongly I realized that the final test rested with Congress. I felt it to be the duty of every person in our society to remain alert and vigilant to any threat to freedom. The freedom to vote could only be unleashed by the members of Congress. They were politicians. Politicians react to pressure. I know that we who were shocked over incidents like the brutal clubbing of Reverend Reeb on a dark street had to establish a counterpressure. I was certain that the President and the Congress had received many angry letters from people who were in favor of keeping blacks in their “place,” who were resigned to the status quo. I have never been in favor of aggressive violence, but neither am I a turn-the-other-cheeker, so I called for letters and public statements. They came by the thousands.

But letters and statements were not enough. I began to sense the need for greater involvement. My opportunity came in 1966 when Governor Rockefeller asked me to become a member of his Executive Chamber as Special Assistant to the Governor for Community Affairs. Even though I had vowed many times that I would not accept a full-time political job, and although I would be making a financial sacrifice, I felt the position would hold an important challenge. The governor an-nounced my appointment at a press conference in Albany in February, 1966.

I told the press that day that one of the reasons I wanted to join the governor's staff was that I deeply respected his personal and public record, his family background, and his determination to work for human dignity.

I found the day-to-day business of representing the governor in his Fifty-fifth Street, New York City, offices quite different from campaigning for him.

A campaign worker has to interpret the candidate to the people, sometimes justifying his views on minor issues even though he might not always thoroughly agree. But because, on an overall basis, he believes in the man and what he stands for, he goes along. In working for the governor, as a special assistant, there is more choice. It is not a question of stooging for him and endorsing his every word and deed or doing one's best to give him honest reports.

A man like Rockefeller is surrounded by people trying to please and soothe him and I think he appreciated my outspokenness. On several occasions, not always happily, the governor conceded that I was one of the few people close to him who usually spoke up when I thought I had to. No one should be brainwashed into believing Uncle-Tomming is a black habit. In the service, in my business associations, and in politics, I have seen some of the most creative kissing of behinds done by white people that one can imagine.

I was given the kind of easy access to the governor that very few people in the state government enjoyed. I had a direct line to the governor to wherever he was in the state. I didn't ask for this kind of communication and I didn't abuse it. I learned that only half a dozen people in the state had the same privilege.

Once when we were campaigning in Queens in a predominantly black community the governor, full of good humor, carelessly referred to a couple of local candidates as “boys.” Instantly I knew this was a grave error. I know how black men feel about being called boy. I myself always react with instant resentment no matter how decent the person using this offensive word seems to be. The crowd, with angry protests, made it quite clear to Rockefeller that they were insulted.

The governor was genuinely shocked. Normally, he has perfect instincts in not making ethnic mistakes. I knew him well enough to know he hadn't meant the word in the way it was received. He was very upset to have given offense and said so. He explained forthrightly, without stuttering or faltering, that he and his brothers were used to referring to each other as the boys. He admitted that he should have been more sensitive than to use the word and he deeply regretted it. It was a straightforward and handsome apology, and the crowd seemed to accept it as sincere.

The next morning I sent him a brief interoffice note which said that I thought he had handled a tense situation rather well.

“But, Governor,” I wrote in the last line, “don't let it happen again.”

On another occasion, during the days of wheeling and dealing and all kinds of speculation about the upcoming 1968 Republican National Convention, the political columns and grapevines were filled with rumors. One of them was that California Governor Ronald Reagan might join Governor Rockefeller to stop Dick Nixon. I knew that a Rockefeller-Reagan ticket would be something I could never be associated with. However, I didn't even give credence to the possibility until I learned that the governor of California had met with the governor very, very quietly at the Rockefeller Fifth Avenue apartment. I made it my business to confront Governor Rockefeller directly.

“You know,” I told him, “I hope this talk about you and Reagan is just talk. I personally couldn't go along with such a hookup, and, furthermore, if I could, I'd never be able to justify or explain it.” The governor laughed heartily, then told me why he was amused.

“You should have heard the hard time I had explaining
you
to Reagan,” he said.

I laughed, too, but pointed out that I couldn't care less what Reagan thought of me.

I constantly told the governor that I didn't think he'd ever make a good Conservative. I believed that challenging actions—such as going to the mat with Nixon for a civil rights platform in 1960 and fighting back before a hostile Goldwater convention in 1964—were the kinds of untraditional conduct that he loved most and that suited him best. I felt that he had little to lose and a world to gain by continuing to refuse to conform to the mold of political accommodations and compromise.

The governor always listened to me thoughtfully and talked with me frankly. The acid test of his confidence in me came during the 1966 campaign for his reelection as governor. I heard a rumor that the governor was going to accept William Miller as campaign manager. The Conservatives had been warning Rockefeller that he must do some things to change his liberal image, that if he didn't, the growing Conservative numbers could weaken the GOP sufficiently to ensure a Democratic victory. I couldn't conceive of Nelson Rockefeller for one minute considering taking this man on his campaign staff, and I knew that if he did, I would have to quit. I knew that my quitting would give a dangerous weapon to the opposition, so I tried to put through a call to the governor to ask him if Bill Miller was going to be accepted by him. If he said yes, I would tell him I would be forced to resign. Normally, I had no problem getting through immediately even in spite of the governor's always hectic schedule. For whatever reason, my request for an appointment was not honored within the next day or two. I had, in accordance with protocol, routed it through top people in the campaign. Perhaps somebody there didn't want me to see the governor. Or maybe the governor himself was ducking me.