Chicago
By ED McMANUS

The mayor and her council

ESCORTED by a policeman, the mayor walks up to the rostrum in the council chamber and sits down. She lifts the gavel and raps it on the desk, and her 50 aldermen come to order — by order of Jane Byrne.

Even now, after many months of Jane's reign, there is something quite unreal about the scene.

On her right is William Quinlan, the holdover corporation counsel, whom she said would be one of the first to go if she were elected. She relies on him for legal advice. On her left is Leon Despres, long the enemy of the machine she now dominates, always a thorn in the side of her mentor, the late mayor. She has selected him, of all people, to be her parliamentarian. Circulating on the floor below is Bill Griffin, her top aide, whose newspaper stories a year ago helped destroy the machine's incumbent mayor. He is whispering in the ear of Edward Burke, her hand-picked candidate for state's attorney, whom she denounced only last year as "an evil man."

The clerk calls the roll and begins to read aloud the documents before him. Some city-owned property is being sold at the suggestion of the mayor, and Alderman Martin Oberman, who fills Despres' old role as leader of the independents, thinks the price is too low. It's an outrage, he says. Roman Pucinski, who criticizes a lot but is careful not to put too much distance between himself and the machine, calls it "somewhat unconscionable." Liberal Larry Bloom chimes in. And Burt Natarus, ever the stalwart machine defender, is on his feet at once, attacking Bloom. Griffin confers with the mayor. The roll is called. The vote is 45-2.

Next item. Confirmation of the mayor's reappointment of a member of the Board of Education. Someone has the temerity to remind her that she earlier said all incumbent board members should quit and that the board members were responsible for the school system's fiscal mess. But Pucinski sticks up for Jane, and so does Natarus, and the appointment is confirmed 40-6.

All the while the mayor sits up there, running the show in her no-nonsense way, conferring with her aides, never smiling, doing her best to look mayorish.

Now the mayor's budget is up for debate. She has a package of amendments, a couple hundred of them. Oberman says they weren't handed out until two hours ago, and he rounds up nine other aldermen to vote against them. They are approved, 36-10. It proves to be the minority's best showing of the day.

Pucinski compliments the budget director. Oberman has some amendments and he wants to discuss them, but Natarus objects. They are sent to committee. Then Oberman begins talking about the budget itself, about how it shortchanges the neighborhoods, about how it has been rushed through with even less scrutiny than in the past, about how the mayor has back-pedaled on her campaign promises. This is Marty Oberman, appointed by the mayor only five months ago to the prestigious job of chairman of her committee on collective bargaining. Oberman talks on, and finally the mayor interrupts him. His time is up, she says. He can talk some more after the other 49 aldermen have had a chance.

Ivan Rittenberg wants a chance. He tells the mayor how courageous she is, and tells the independents how unfair and self-serving they are.

A few others speak, and then it's Oberman's turn again, and he blasts Jane some more. Then, who's that on his feet, leaping to the mayor's defense? It's Fast Eddie Vrdolyak, alderman and Democratic committeeman of the 10th Ward, part of the "cabal of evil men" Jane Byrne pledged to run out of City Hall. Vrdolyak calls the budget "an excellent start for a first budget" and castigates Oberman. When he cracks a joke about the mayor, she does something she hasn't done for the entire meeting: She smiles.

The roll is called, and the vote for the Byrne budget is 39-6. And the mayor, surrounded by bodyguards, goes off to have lunch with her husband.

February 1980/Illinois Issues/33