A scandal worth recalling
James Brady
Remember Sherman Adams, the Karl Rove of his time? When New York Post columnist John Podhoretz, a conservative with a historical bent, cited Adams the other day, the Eisenhower years of the 1950s and a New England textile magnate named Bernard Goldfine sprang nimbly to memory.
Adams, a former governor of New Hampshire, was Ike's right-hand man at the White House, in ways equivalent to Rove's relationship to George Bush. Adams was smart, tough, energetic. Ike had been slowed by age, illness and golf, and Gov. Adams sort of filled the vacuum and got things done. He was maybe--as some consider Rove--the second-most powerful man in the country.
Until Mr. Goldfine came along. The resultant furor almost stopped government in its tracks.
Because I was covering the Senate for Fairchild Publications, and because Goldfine was a textile guy and we had a couple of textile papers, Daily News Record and, tangentially, Women's Wear Daily, I was assigned to the story. There were allegations of influence peddling on government contracts with the help of Goldfine cronies in high places. A Senate investigating committee called him in.
Bernard Goldfine was rich, plump and powerful back home. And right from the start, he threw his weight around. When a senator remarked, "Mr. Goldfine, you are after all subject to the same laws as every American," he snapped back, "That remains to be seen." The arrogant Goldfine went on to drop the names of his high-and-mighty pals in Washington.
At some point--and to the delight of everyone fed up with his posturing--it was revealed that Goldfine had sent Gov. Adams an expensive vicuna coat. The media, and the Democrats, pounced. Was this a bribe? Had Adams reported the gift on his tax returns? You know, all the usual stuff.
Goldfine sent for reinforcements. His two grown sons came down. Tex McCrary, the hotshot New York PR man and radio talk show host, breezed into the Capital, back-slapping senators, buttonholing reporters, buying drinks and holding press conferences. Tex would straighten everything out.
Then, just as things began to simmer down, one of the sons tried to kill himself.
No drug overdose, no revolver. Oh, no, nothing that simple. The younger Goldfine decided to off himself in his hotel room by the infamous Chinese "death of a thousand cuts," using a razor blade. I believe the lad was up to about cut 235 when they rushed in to save him. By now Goldfine had lost his government contracts, poor Ike was beside himself, Adams had resigned and Tex had thrown up his hands and returned to Manhattan.
They don't hardly have scandals like that anymore.
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