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For years, Los Angeles officials had lobbied the federal government, all the way to President Truman, to use the legal strategy that nailed Al Capone -- a tax case -- against the showboating L.A. mobster. A grand jury eventually collected evidence of how Mickey had paid a decorator $49,329 for work on his Brentwood home, spent $800 on shoes and handed out $600 in tips at one lavish affair. They'd let him try to explain how he lived like that thanks to $300,000 in "loans," not income, from bookies and others. "If it's against the law to borrow dough," Mickey joked, "I'm guilty."
But he never learned about some of the evidence authorities had -- documents gathered by one of the guards at his home, salvaged from a backyard incinerator. Mickey would take his papers out there to burn.
Neal Hawkins, a World War II munitions expert, had gotten hired onto Mickey's security team thanks to some finagling by O'Mara. Hawkins would stamp out the fire and sneak the charred remnants to the Gangster Squad sergeant, who'd pass them to his bosses, who'd give them to the Feds.
Thus did they get the guilty verdict they wanted -- and Mickey got a five-year sentence for tax evasion. Before they led him off, Mickey handed his wife a roll of bills and his jewelry, gave her a kiss and pledged to appeal. "Right now, though," he quipped, "I'm hungry."
Five years had passed since the Gangster Squad was formed with the streets as its office. Two of the original eight had retired, including the first field leader, Willie Burns. Soon after, two more originals were gone, dead, in fact -- one in a car accident, the other a suicide.
There were no guarantees in police work, or life, but O'Mara hoped he'd still be around, and on the squad, when Mickey got out of prison. He wanted to see if another of his small victories paid off.
This too involved his mole Hawkins. Well before Mickey went off on his federally sponsored vacation, the guard had smuggled seven handguns out of his Brentwood house. Not exactly smuggled -- at O'Mara's direction, the munitions expert had suggested to Mickey that his guns could use a checkup. Hawkins volunteered to take them into the wilderness to fire 'em, clean 'em and oil 'em. Mickey loved the idea.
But Hawkins did not take the guns to the desert. He took them to the police range in West L.A., where O'Mara was waiting with an LAPD lab technician. Not surprisingly, none of the weapons was registered to Mickey. They recorded the serial numbers and fired test bullets from each.
O'Mara screwed off the butt plates and scratched initials into each gun, putting his own, "JOM," in the first. Then he reattached the plates and Hawkins returned the cleaned guns to an appreciative Mickey.
At police headquarters, the list of hidden initials was locked in a safe in the office of the squad's boss, Capt. James Hamilton. Only Chief William H. Parker and a few others were let in on the trap they'd set for Mickey.
While he was in prison, one of his henchmen would keep his arsenal. When he got out, he'd no doubt retrieve the guns that now could be traced to him. "I figured they might be recovered from a body someday," O'Mara said.
If that happened, the LAPD might actually solve a gangland killing. It was a long shot, but some long shots pay off. O'Mara merely had to wait a decade, to the last days of the 1950s, to the night when Mickey and his crew sat waiting in Rondelli's restaurant for Jack "the Enforcer" Whalen, the homegrown hoodlum who'd found a special friend on the Gangster Squad.
paul.lieberman@latimes.com
Times researcher Maloy Moore and former researcher Tracy Thomas contributed to this series.
But he never learned about some of the evidence authorities had -- documents gathered by one of the guards at his home, salvaged from a backyard incinerator. Mickey would take his papers out there to burn.
Neal Hawkins, a World War II munitions expert, had gotten hired onto Mickey's security team thanks to some finagling by O'Mara. Hawkins would stamp out the fire and sneak the charred remnants to the Gangster Squad sergeant, who'd pass them to his bosses, who'd give them to the Feds.
Thus did they get the guilty verdict they wanted -- and Mickey got a five-year sentence for tax evasion. Before they led him off, Mickey handed his wife a roll of bills and his jewelry, gave her a kiss and pledged to appeal. "Right now, though," he quipped, "I'm hungry."
Five years had passed since the Gangster Squad was formed with the streets as its office. Two of the original eight had retired, including the first field leader, Willie Burns. Soon after, two more originals were gone, dead, in fact -- one in a car accident, the other a suicide.
There were no guarantees in police work, or life, but O'Mara hoped he'd still be around, and on the squad, when Mickey got out of prison. He wanted to see if another of his small victories paid off.
This too involved his mole Hawkins. Well before Mickey went off on his federally sponsored vacation, the guard had smuggled seven handguns out of his Brentwood house. Not exactly smuggled -- at O'Mara's direction, the munitions expert had suggested to Mickey that his guns could use a checkup. Hawkins volunteered to take them into the wilderness to fire 'em, clean 'em and oil 'em. Mickey loved the idea.
But Hawkins did not take the guns to the desert. He took them to the police range in West L.A., where O'Mara was waiting with an LAPD lab technician. Not surprisingly, none of the weapons was registered to Mickey. They recorded the serial numbers and fired test bullets from each.
O'Mara screwed off the butt plates and scratched initials into each gun, putting his own, "JOM," in the first. Then he reattached the plates and Hawkins returned the cleaned guns to an appreciative Mickey.
At police headquarters, the list of hidden initials was locked in a safe in the office of the squad's boss, Capt. James Hamilton. Only Chief William H. Parker and a few others were let in on the trap they'd set for Mickey.
While he was in prison, one of his henchmen would keep his arsenal. When he got out, he'd no doubt retrieve the guns that now could be traced to him. "I figured they might be recovered from a body someday," O'Mara said.
If that happened, the LAPD might actually solve a gangland killing. It was a long shot, but some long shots pay off. O'Mara merely had to wait a decade, to the last days of the 1950s, to the night when Mickey and his crew sat waiting in Rondelli's restaurant for Jack "the Enforcer" Whalen, the homegrown hoodlum who'd found a special friend on the Gangster Squad.
paul.lieberman@latimes.com
Times researcher Maloy Moore and former researcher Tracy Thomas contributed to this series.
