Golden (28 page)

In New York City, Bradley Tusk's phone rang. The twenty-nine-year-old Tusk was friends with John Wyma from their time working together for US Senator Chuck Schumer of New York. Tusk had handled communications, while Wyma served as Schumer's chief of staff. The two had stayed in touch since parting ways, Wyma rejoining Blagojevich and Tusk becoming a special assistant to New York City's newest mayor, Michael Bloomberg. And
Wyma didn't beat around the bush in asking Tusk if he wanted to move to Chicago to become Blagojevich's deputy governor.

“What's a deputy governor, and why are you calling me?” Tusk asked.

They were legitimate questions. Tusk's ties to Chicago weren't strong: He graduated from University of Chicago Law School but grew up in New York and worked politics exclusively on the East Coast. He had also met Blagojevich only once before, two years earlier when Wyma invited him to dinner to join Blagojevich and Monk at Mr. K's, a Chinese restaurant in Washington.

But Wyma noticed Tusk and Blagojevich got along well that night. They also shared a similar upbringing. Tusk was born in Brooklyn, the son of Gabriel and Nadine Tusk. Gabriel had been born in Siberia where his father and mother met at a Russian prisoner of war camp before coming to New York after World War II. Gabriel Tusk attended Brooklyn College, fought in Vietnam, and then made a living in New York City's schmatta business selling garments.

Bradley went to the University of Pennsylvania and caught the political bug after his freshman year when the Democratic National Convention was being held in 1992 at Madison Square Garden, where he met Ed Rendell, Philadelphia's mayor at the time. That meeting got Tusk an internship in the mayor's office, which he parlayed after graduation into several government jobs, including the New York City Parks Department and Schumer's office, squeezing three years of law school in between.

Tusk was smart, a hard worker, and extremely motivated, three qualities Wyma felt were needed to work for Blagojevich. But since that dinner at Mr. K's, Tusk had begun working for Bloomberg. He was doing well there, enjoyed the work, and hadn't thought much about the former congressman and Illinois's new governor. But Wyma's pitch was too much for Tusk to simply toss away. When Tusk asked, “What's a deputy governor?” the answer was enticing: he's the guy who runs the state.

Tusk flew into Chicago on the weekend before Presidents' Day. The series of interviews would be a quiet affair. Scofield hadn't gone anywhere, and even he didn't know the governor was bringing in people to replace him.

Tall and thin with dark hair, Tusk had a subtle New York accent and spoke so quickly people often had to ask him to repeat himself. He dressed well but disliked wearing ties. His first meeting was at the East Bank Club with Wyma and Kelly before the three later joined Monk and Blagojevich. Tusk understood everyone's role except Kelly's. But he didn't give it much
thought. “I assumed his opinion mattered to the people making the decision,” he recalled years later testifying in federal court. Then again, he wasn't overly impressed with Kelly, who struck Tusk as a successful businessman but politically unsophisticated. One of Kelly's main questions was what Rudy Giuliani was really like. Tusk thought to himself, “Should I tell him I work for Bloomberg?” He didn't.

Tusk had prepared heavily for the interviews, researching Blagojevich's congressional career and the promises he made on the campaign trail. Tusk was impressive from the outset, telling Blagojevich that he shared his desire to push for big programs that would have a significant impact on the state, not just tinkering on the edges. He had breakfast the following day with Monk and dinner at Blagojevich's home with the governor and Patti.

It was clear to Tusk that Blagojevich wanted somebody who would do the tough work, poke that stick in the eyes of other politicians, without worrying about offending anyone's sensibilities. Too often in politics, people in high-level posts like Tusk's would soft-peddle their plans with other politicians, either because they were friends with them or because they feared that being too tough could hurt them down the road in their career as lobbyists. Tusk made it clear from the outset he had no plans to join Illinois's insider political culture after he was done with the job.

While Tusk made his position clear, so did Blagojevich. He wasn't a detail guy. He was a big-picture guy. The details of these big programs and making them become reality were going to fall to Tusk.

Personally, Tusk and Blagojevich hit it off well. Blagojevich loved Tusk's stories of his grandfather and father. The POW camp. The schmatta salesman. It all reminded Blagojevich of his family's stories and his upbringing. The only thing Blagojevich didn't like was that Tusk was a New York Mets fan. But he could live with that. And Tusk could live working for a Cubs fan. This was a job that could make his career. Do well here and he could do almost anything.

Internally, the decision to replace Scofield came with little fanfare. Scofield talked to so few people about it that even his friends in the administration were caught by surprise. Scofield didn't even talk to Blagojevich about it directly, instead discussing it with Monk. Blagojevich often turned his back on people who left him, like a spurned boyfriend who got dumped before prom. He took it personally. In the weeks before Scofield left, Blagojevich stopped calling as much and demanding so much time from his deputy governor. When Scofield's announcement went public, though, there was
no talk about Blagojevich's broken promises or atrocious management style. Scofield said he wanted to spend more time with his family. He soon discovered how truly mutual the decision was when Tusk was quickly named his replacement.

At the intersection of Madison and Halsted in Chicago's Greektown neighborhood, the driver of a large black SUV idling behind a taxi in the left turn lane turned on the vehicle's police lights, bolted around the taxi, and pulled up alongside a bank at the corner. “Can you believe that?” the cab driver asked his passenger, incredulous. “He put on fake police lights!” Seconds later, the cab driver discovered the lights weren't fake as he saw Rod Blagojevich hop out of the SUV and dash into the bank's front door.

“Oh my gosh! That's the governor!”

As usual, he was late. But Rod Blagojevich had arrived. Having inherited a $5 billion budget deficit and the largest public pension debt—$35 billion— of any state in the nation at the time, Blagojevich was holding an announcement event at the bank to unveil one of his first major ideas as governor. It was a controversial plan that was the brainchild of his new budget director, John Filan, who had conceived of it while working for Blagojevich's transition team.

Massive in scope and immensely complicated to pull off, the plan was also astounding in its simplicity: Illinois would borrow up to $10 billion at current low interest rates and use that money to pay off debt that was being collected at higher interest rates. It was no different from refinancing a home mortgage, Blagojevich and Filan said. The idea to buy so much in bonds spurred national headlines in the financial news world and raised questions about Blagojevich's sanity. He was in office just a few months and already saddling the state with massive debt in exchange for upfront cash and a hope the stock market wouldn't crash.

Blagojevich promoted the idea as a way for Illinois to balance the budget without raising taxes. But it had a major ancillary benefit for the financial industry: whichever company or companies got the bond business would make millions of dollars in, perhaps, just a few days. It was the biggest deal in the history of the state. And bond houses knew how Illinois worked. To get the business, they reasoned, they needed to hire lobbyists, preferably ones with close contacts to the governor and his administration.

Lehman Brothers hired John Wyma. ABN AMRO hired Al Ronan, who was once again on good terms with Mell. UBS Financial Services, Inc. hired Ungaretti & Harris, which employed big-time national Democratic fundraiser Joe Cari. Bear Stearns & Co. hired Springfield Consulting Group, which was headed by Kjellander, who despite being the GOP's national committeeman for Illinois and a close pal of Karl Rove was also good friends with Rezko.

The bond sale was so large it had to be approved by the legislature during the 2003 spring session, and after it was, Filan and his team began the process of prequalifying companies to get the work. Nearly a half-dozen firms were selected as “senior managers” after pitching their proposals. But one firm that didn't make the final cut was Lehman Brothers.

Blagojevich made a bold gesture of not allowing Lehman Brothers to get a piece of the work because he thought it would look bad to hire Wyma's firm. He was reforming the state's culture of insider deals, he said publicly. Officials with Lehman Brothers complained to Filan they were being unfairly targeted, but the decision was final.

For weeks Filan and his new deputy, a financial whiz named David Abel, watched the markets closely to see when the state should sell the bonds. In early June, Filan asked the governor if he would be available the following day because they might be ready to pull the trigger. Initially the plan was to sell $6 billion of the $10 billion, but as Filan and Abel looked at the numbers and the interest rates continued to sink, they recommend moving on the entire $10 billion that day.

Filan arrived on the sixteenth floor of the Thompson Center and entered Blagojevich's office, where he saw the governor as well as Tusk, Monk, and Kelly. Abel soon joined them and confirmed the numbers were favorable enough right now it was wise to move. But they had to move fast.

Everyone turned to Blagojevich, looking—needing—his approval. Blagojevich turned to Kelly, who Monk recalled had been huddling earlier with Rezko in the back of Blagojevich's large office. As discussions continued, Kelly pulled the governor aside for a few minutes, and the two quietly chatted. After that talk broke up, Blagojevich gave his OK. Bear Stearns would get all $10 billion. That meant $8 million for the firm and more than $800,000 for Kjellander.

Rod Blagojevich was sweating.

Underneath the stands at newly named US Cellular Field, home of the Chicago White Sox, Blagojevich took warm-ups in preparation for accomplishing a near-perfect childhood dream: he would be throwing out the first pitch for 2003 Opening Day. Granted it was for the Sox, not the governor's beloved Cubs, up against the Detroit Tigers. But Sox owner Jerry Reinsdorf was a campaign contributor, and this was good enough. Dressed in a gray sweater, dark slacks, and dress shoes, Blagojevich sported a black glove on his left hand and paced out sixty feet in an empty private concourse used by ballclub staffers to get from one part of the stadium to the other. Crouched down playing catcher was Chris Kelly.

“Even if it is for the Sox, it's a dream come true,” the forty-six-year-old governor said as he tossed several practice pitches to Kelly, who pounded his mitt and jokingly encouraged Blagojevich to “toss one in here!”

“I don't want to screw this up,” Blagojevich said. “I don't want to be one of those politicians who can't throw the ball far enough and then people think I'm not an athlete.”

When the time came, two hours later due to a rain delay, Blagojevich jogged out to the mound sporting a black Sox jacket, collar turned up. He was greeted with a hail of boos. Not only was he a politician, but he was also an unabashed Cubs fan. Blagojevich laughed. He figured he'd get
that reception. With a big exhale, Blagojevich positioned himself on the mound, stuck his left index finger outside his glove just like the pros do, and tossed the ball. He bounced it. Blagojevich laughed again—this time at himself.

Several hours later, Blagojevich was still at the Sox game when Patti called. Ten days past her due date for their second child, she told Rod tonight might be the night. He quickly headed home and took her out for dinner to a Mexican restaurant—the same thing they had done before Amy was born. Again, it worked. By 5:00 A
M
Saturday at Northwestern University's Prentice Women's Hospital, Patti gave birth to the Blagojevichs' second girl, Anne. They planned on calling her Annie.