Unless Michael Madigan shocks the Illinois political world and testifies at his own federal corruption trial, the only thing the jury will have heard from him when it soon comes time to decide his fate is what’s on federal tape.
Over the past eight weeks, prosecutors have brought forth an onslaught of evidence in a case that sprawls over nearly a decade and involves big-ticket legislation, large utilities, nitty-gritty ward politics and glitzy real estate developments from the West Loop to Chinatown.
Jurors have seen the powerful House Speaker and Democratic Party leader at his shrewdest and most calculating: coldly green-lighting the ouster of an longtime House ally to deflect a growing sexual harassment scandal; subtly using the power of his office to vie for private legal business; and allegedly conspiring with his longtime confidant, Michael McClain, to steer hundreds of thousands of dollars in do-nothing consulting contracts to a cadre of loyalists.
But alongside all the allegations of power plays, insider deals, and shakedown schemes, another side of the man known in Springfield as “The Velvet Hammer” has emerged during the trial, one that paints Madigan as quite personable.
In the dozens of telephone wiretaps and undercover videos presented to the jury, Madigan often comes across as an almost-gentle benefactor, an intent listener, and a calm and careful negotiator.
Sprinkled amid discussions that prosecutors allege was an illegal abuse of his office, the videos show Madigan crinkling his eyes, talking at length about having dinner with his grown children, and laughing heartily when then-Ald. Daniel Solis compared Madigan to his more flagrant and occasionally profane colleague, Ald. Edward Burke.
“Ed is very different from you,” Solis told Madigan in one chat, prompting Madigan to hoot with laughter.
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I’ve known him a long time.”
Beyond the tapes, the jury’s real-life observations of Madigan will likely be limited to what they’ve seen of him in the courtroom, where he has sat mostly silent at the defense table for hours on end, casting an occasional steely glare or small smile, going over notes or whispering with attorneys.
Jurors have also had occasion to see Madigan on lunch breaks in the courthouse cafeteria, where the former speaker usually sits one-on-one with one of his daughters — including former Attorney General Lisa Madigan — or other supporters, snacking on fresh fruit from the salad bar.
Soon, it will be up to the jury to decide whether Madigan’s words captured on tape were the actions of a corrupt public official or simply the distasteful — but legal — machinations of a renowned political tactician.
After nearly 50 witnesses and hundreds of secret recordings, prosecutors are nearing the end of their case in chief. Assistant U.S. Attorney Amarjeet Bhachu told the judge last week they expect to rest as soon as Tuesday afternoon.
Much of the evidence had been aired in previous trials related to the Madigan investigation and unspooled in predictable fashion. There were surprises, however, including some witnesses who were not called despite extensive pretrial arguments and another who took the stand briefly but didn’t return for a second day of testimony — for reasons not publicly explained.
When prosecutors are finished, all eyes will turn to the defense, although there have been indications that whatever witnesses they intend to present will be brief.
Left unsaid so far is whether Madigan will take the stand in his own defense, although it’s a rare and extremely risky move for any defendant in a federal corruption trial. It also would seem wholly out of character for Madigan, who has always been known as someone who knows best where the advantage lies.
Madigan, 82, a Southwest Side Democrat, and his longtime confidant, McClain, 77, of downstate Quincy, are charged in a 23-count indictment alleging Madigan’s vaunted state and political operations were run like a criminal enterprise to amass and increase his power and enrich himself and his associates.
In addition to pressuring developers to hire the speaker’s law firm, the indictment accuses Madigan and McClain of conspiring to have utility giants Commonwealth Edison and AT&T Illinois put the speaker’s associates on contracts requiring little or no work in exchange for Madigan’s assistance on key legislation in Springfield.
ComEd allegedly also heaped legal work onto a Madigan ally, granted his request to put a political associate on the state-regulated utility’s board and distributed bundles of summer internships to college students living in his Southwest Side legislative district, according to the charges.
Both Madigan and McClain have denied wrongdoing.
The Madigan tapes
Unlike in Burke’s own criminal trial last year, there have been no vulgar, punchline-worthy quotes from Madigan on the secret recordings, no talk of landing “the tuna,” or cash registers that had not rung, or developers who could “go (expletive) themselves.”
But the Madigan recordings have still offered the rare chance to see the normally taciturn speaker with his guard down, talking about a range of topics that would never be covered in a news conference or political sound bite, from the redrawing of legislative maps to the horse trading over filling state board positions.
There have been oddly revealing moments, too, such as a 2018 wiretap where Madigan borrowed McClain’s cellphone to talk to his wife about a menu.
“So, they have three soups,” Madigan said on the call. “Can you, the soup again is (coughs), cream of broccoli … spinach with egg drops.”
In his video-recorded talks with Solis, Madigan seemed keenly interested to learn that Solis’ 25th Ward had been redrawn to include parts of the South Loop and West Loop, which were both booming with real estate activity and deep-pocketed developers.
On June 20, 2018, Solis recorded a private conversation with Madigan at the speaker’s downtown law office, where they had just met with developers to pitch Madigan & Getzendanner’s tax appeal services.
As part of an FBI ruse, Solis, who was wearing a hidden camera somewhere on his chest, had been instructed to tell Madigan he was thinking about retiring and ask the speaker for help landing a lucrative state board position.
When talk turned to St. Ignatius College Prep, the Catholic school on West Roosevelt Road where Madigan’s four children and Solis’ son all attended, Madigan seemed surprised that it was in Solis’ ward.
“I was very selective when redistricting,” Solis explained. “People were wondering what I was doing.”
Solis told Madigan he gave then-11th Ward Ald. Patrick Daley Thompson the University Village area and carved out the South Loop for himself, prompting another laugh from Madigan.
“I think that John Daley regrets that,” Madigan said, referencing Thompson’s uncle and Cook County commissioner. “He would’ve preferred to go west in the twelfth.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I think you’re right. These young urban professionals, they’re very demanding and stuff,” Solis said.
The conversation then turned to some of the projects in Solis’ ward, with the alderman promising to bring Madigan more business. “Yeah, yeah, OK,” the speaker said, before bringing up perhaps the largest project of all: the $300 million renovation of the Old Post Office project and its New York-based developer, Harry Skydell.
“One guy you mentioned that I’ve been trying to make a connection with is this Skydell,” Madigan said.
Solis said, “I can bring you him,” but warned that he’d already connected Skydell with Burke, whose law firm also specialized in property tax appeals. As Solis explained that Skydell wound up not giving Burke the Post Office account, the recording showed Madigan’s eyebrows raise as he mumbled a quick, “Mmm.”
“But he’s bought other property,” Solis said about Skydell. “So, if you want, I can bring him to you too.”
Madigan said that he’d been trying to get a meeting with Skydell for months, “but he pushes off all the time.”
“And then somebody told me somewhere along the line that somebody sold him a bill of goods that I was on bad paper with Rahm Emanuel, you know? Which is crazy,” Madigan said. “If you can, if you can talk to the guy. I’ve been trying all kinds of lines to get to know the guy.”
Solis told Madigan his law firm “will impress the hell out of” the rather stoic Skydell. “I think it’s, it’s very different from, when (Burke) meets someone,” he said, prompting Madigan to roar with laughter.
“Different styles I guess,” Solis said.
“Yeah. Yeah, yeah,” Madigan said, leaning forward into the camera view and still laughing. “No, absolutely. That’s a good way to say it.”
That August, Solis was back at Madigan’s law office, where he told the speaker he had gone over the list of board positions Madigan had provided and that the ones that “impressed” him paid over $100,000 a year, such as the Illinois Commerce Commission or the Labor Relations Board.
“Now what happens, let’s say I’d be interested in that, but I’m not gonna be available for a year to two years?” Solis asked.
Madigan assured him the positions can “just sit there” until a replacement is named.
“So, you just don’t do anything, and the guy stays there. And if you’re, if you’re courteous, somebody tells them, you know, ‘You’re not gonna hang on, eventually, you’re gonna be gone,’” Madigan said. “That’s how I would do it.”
Madigan then launched into a story about how he got Robert Gierut, a former CTA employee relations executive and 11th Ward political worker, appointed to the Labor Relations Board.
He said it happened after then-Gov. Pat Quinn tried to appoint Mike “Pickles” Joyce, the son of Jeremiah Joyce, a former state senator and top political brain for Mayor Richard M. Daley, but had to pull the offer amid a political dust-up.
Madigan described Pickles as “a little goofy for boxing,” a reference to both his prowess in the ring and his marriage to the daughter of famed heavyweight champion Muhammad Ali.
“They tried to appoint him as a member of this board. And it came out that he, it was documented that he used some racial slur with a police officer or something like that,” Madigan said. “And it was reported. And so Quinn had to back off.”
Madigan said he went to top Quinn aide Jerry Stermer with Gierut’s name, and the appointment got done. “That’s how Bob got on,” he said.
“So, what would happen if you recommended me?” Solis asked.
Madigan said it wouldn’t come from him — at least not officially — but from JB Pritzker, who at that time appeared poised to unseat Republican Gov. Bruce Rauner.
“See, I would go to Pritzker. That’s what I would do,” Madigan said. “So, you’d come in as Pritzker’s recommendation.”
Three months later, shortly after Pritzker won the election, Madigan and Solis sat down again for what would become the last video recording Solis would make. Again, Solis assured the speaker that despite his intention to retire, he could still be a rainmaker when it came to developers.
“There’s a couple more in the South Loop, and there’s some in the, in the West Loop. So, I figure I can still help you a lot. I’m committed for that,” Solis said in the Nov. 23, 2018, conversation, as Madigan sat across from him with a book about Chicago’s St. Patrick’s Day parade on the coffee table. Leaned against the wall behind Madigan was what appeared to be a life-size punching bag printed with Rauner’s face.
Madigan replied enthusiastically, “OK, thank you,” before moving almost immediately to the board seat. “Do, do you want to go forward now on one of those state appointments?” Madigan asked.
The speaker told Solis to start getting a resume together because he was going to have a meeting with Pritzker in a couple weeks. “I want to let Pritzker know what’s coming now,” Madigan said, adding that the ask on Solis “doesn’t have to be in writing.”
“I can just verbally tell them, look, as we go on with these boards and commissions,” Madigan continued. “And I’ll monitor what’s going on … we’re doing that already. We’re sending names over.”
Solis was outed as a cooperator before any appointment went through.
What’s left out?
Trials, especially long ones, can be fluid, with attorneys making game-time decisions about evidence and witnesses. As such, the Madigan trial has not shaken out quite as expected.
For reasons that are still mysterious, jurors have heard only very briefly from state Rep. Bob Rita, a Blue Island Democrat who served on Madigan’s leadership team. Rita took the stand in late October for less than 10 minutes.
It was only enough time to establish the bare-bones basics: Rita got a letter confirming he was not a target of the investigation, he is a longtime Springfield veteran and he knew Madigan was close to McClain.
After that, the trial recessed for the weekend. Jurors were expecting Rita to continue his testimony first thing the following Monday, but instead, Rita stayed in the hallway with his attorney while prosecutors and defense attorneys appeared to be scrambling due to some newly disclosed information.
When trial resumed, prosecutors presented more wiretap recordings. U.S. District Judge John Robert Blakey told jurors only that Rita would be “taken out of order.”
A month and a half later, he has not reappeared on the witness stand, with no public explanation for his absence.
He may return this week, however. If he does, his testimony likely will be extremely brief: Bhachu said in court Wednesday they would only plan to question him for about 15 minutes.
Rita has already testified in two other Madigan-related trials: The perjury case of Madigan’s ex-chief of staff Tim Mapes and the “ComEd Four” bribery trial. Both efforts were far lengthier than 15 minutes.
He testified memorably in the ComEd case about Madigan’s leadership style. Madigan valued “loyalty to himself, to the caucus, to the party” above all else, Rita said.
Asked how the speaker typically exercised his power, Rita paused for a second before declaring, in his flat Chicago accent, “Through fear and intimidation.”
As the trial shifted into its final phase of evidence, the alleged AT&T scheme, prosecutors were expected to call Stephen Selcke, formerly one of the telecom giant’s top internal lobbyists. Last week, however, they revealed they would not be putting Selcke on the stand.
Selcke testified just three months ago in the related bribery trial of former AT&T boss Paul La Schiazza, giving the jury an insider’s account of the decision to hire former state Rep. Edward Acevedo — despite his lack of experience and boorish demeanor — in hopes of staying in Madigan’s good graces.
But Selcke also gave a boost to the defense by testifying that no one at AT&T believed Acevedo’s contract was in exchange for any official act on Madigan’s part.
Prosecutors’ announcement that they would not call Selcke led to some legal scuffling, as defense attorneys took the chance to argue that without him on the stand, several pieces of evidence could not go before jurors. Blakey disagreed, however, and jurors have seen a slew of emails between Selcke, La Schiazza, McClain and others about AT&T’s apparent attempt to curry Madigan’s favor.
The La Schiazza trial ended in a hung jury when the panel deadlocked 11-1, and given Selcke’s insistence that he did not believe they were paying bribes, it is not surprising that Madigan’s defense team said they may call him as their own witness.
Selcke might not end up being the home-run witness they are hoping for, however. U.S. District Judge Robert Gettleman on Thursday rejected La Schiazza’s bid for acquittal, saying Selcke’s testimony was important to prove the conspiracy — particularly in connecting the dots on McClain’s connections to Madigan, given there was no direct evidence that the speaker was aware of the Acevedo request.
Selcke “testified that McClain was understood to be ‘speaking as an emissary for Speaker Madigan’ and that everyone at AT&T, including the defendant, believed that McClain was ‘acting at the speaker’s direction,’” Gettleman wrote.
It also seems increasingly likely that jurors will not hear from Alaina Hampton, whom prosecutors were initially planning to call in early November.
Hampton was crucial to the #MeToo-related upheaval in the speaker’s office in 2018, when she went public with accusations that Kevin Quinn — a longtime 13th Ward worker and brother of Ald. Marty Quinn — repeatedly sexually harassed her.
The misconduct included a relentless stream of text messages from Quinn asking her out, despite the fact that she repeatedly turned down his advances. Hampton later filed a federal lawsuit claiming she was unjustly blackballed after reporting Quinn, and reached a $275,000 settlement with four of Madigan’s political committees.
Jurors have heard that Kevin Quinn was ousted from the ward office via a carefully sanitized stipulation that made no mention of Hampton or the actual nature of the allegations against him. Prosecutors said only that he was terminated after accusations of “misconduct.”
Evidence has shown that McClain, with Madigan’s knowledge, jumped to help Quinn after his firing, asking a handful of Madigan allies to each pay Quinn $1,000 a month until Madigan’s reelection as speaker was secure and he could help Quinn out personally.
Hampton’s proposed testimony set off a series of extensive arguments on the day jury selection began about what she could and could not say. Defense attorneys accused prosecutors of trying to do an “end run” around the judge’s previous ruling limiting testimony about sexual harassment.
Prosecutors had initially hoped Hampton could testify herself about reporting the harassment directly to Madigan, though she would have been instructed not to say she was the victim or specify that the misconduct was sexual in nature.
Madigan’s attorneys objected strongly, however, and Blakey determined that instead, jurors should hear a stipulation that Hampton informed Madigan of misconduct.
As Hampton’s planned testimony came closer, defense attorneys launched a last-ditch — and ultimately unsuccessful — effort to keep jurors from hearing about the Quinn matter altogether.
Since she would have been prohibited from talking about her experiences with sexual harassment, Hampton’s testimony likely would have been limited to talking about her work within the Madigan machine: giving jurors an inside view of what it was like to work inside his Southwest Side power base, for example.
But much of that ground has been substantively covered by other 13th Ward witnesses, such as former precinct captains Ed Moody and Joe Lullo.
Moody had plenty of anecdotes about old-school neighborhood politics and all the pavement-pounding it entailed. But he also told jurors that Madigan rewarded him for that hard work with a cushy ComEd subcontract.
“(Madigan) said if I leave my politics, if I stopped doing what I was doing, I would lose the contract,” Moody testified, saying he took that to mean that Madigan “influenced getting it, and he could influence me losing it.”
