In late October 1978, Mayor Michael A. Bilandic was about to present his budget for the coming year, and Sun-Times reporter Harry Golden sat at his Underwood typewriter, rapidly pecking away at its keys with the index fingers of both hands. Mouthing his words as they formed on the paper, Golden–the dean of the City Hall press room–planned to break one of his usual budget exclusives. He wasn’t about to be sidetracked by any distractions.
“Fuck her,” Golden replied in his gravelly Brooklyn accent. “She’s a crazy bitch. I ain’t wasting my time.” His colorful language was offered for effect and didn’t necessarily reflect his true feelings.
City Hall suddenly became the hottest beat in town. And City Hall reporters found themselves thrust into their own spotlight. As one of seven full-time reporters stationed in the press room, I can tell you firsthand that light burned bright. Within a matter of months, the press room grew from 7 desks to 18, and from two small rooms to four.
We had to restrain our laughter as we walked into the mayor’s fifth-floor office. Sitting under a portrait of Boss Daley, Bilandic wore a dark blue-knit cap that was bunched up and tilting off to one side of his head; he looked like the Grinch who stole Christmas. He wore a long-sleeved thermal undershirt pulled over his dress shirt and tie. The undershirt was too tight, and his gold-linked cuffs poked out of the sleeves.
Bilandic refused to believe polls that showed his popularity plummeting while Byrne’s started to soar. At a luncheon for his top precinct captains, Bilandic explained away his troubles by comparing himself to Jesus Christ and the Shah of Iran in a rambling speech that left his supporters dumbfounded.
But Byrne didn’t have to visit the press room to influence the news–she was a media creature. Most of her top aides were former journalists, and McMullen had spent years in the press room. He understood the nature of the beast and believed he could force reporters to bow to his wife’s power. They often did in public. But privately they harbored a deep resentment, rattling off their colorful impieties from behind closed doors. Unlike with prior mayors, reporters developed close personal contacts with Byrne that in turn nurtured deep feelings that were later reflected in their reporting. This affected how Byrne responded, and it soon turned into a vicious, uncontrollable cycle.
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I had just been named the City Hall reporter for the Southtown Economist in October 1978, when Bilandic’s press secretary, Celesta Jurkovich, introduced me to the six full-time reporters in the press room. Few of them took notice of me as they hammered out their stories on old typewriters, provided free of charge by the city’s purchasing department. Everything in the press room had been “donated” by taxpayers–telephones, a television, desks, chairs, filing cabinets, and a water cooler (with a hot-water spigot for coffee). That reflected the media’s attitude at the time–the reporters took all of it for granted because they thought they deserved it.
