It must have been a long summer for some Illinois officials. From one end of the state to the other, prosecutors turned up the heat on public corruption. But that gave us a chance to ponder the meaning of the old saying: " The personal is political."

In Springfield, a federal bribery trial soured friendships in a circle of former public aid workers and state contractors. Prosecutors argued the gifts those pals gave one another added up to influence peddling. Indeed, it does pay to set some criteria for choosing friends and associates. Especially in politics. In Chicago, for instance, the mole the feds recruited for still another probe — this one about payoffs for illegal dumping—doesn't measure up to the characters who befriended pols in past federal stings. Sadly, standards appear to be on the decline everywhere. Meanwhile, Chicago Aid. Ed Burke came under fire for putting a law firm associate on that city's payroll. But Burke has always done favors for people and, while political friendships are fleeting, debts are lasting. He's counting on payback time with his allies— whether it's moral support, or even a pass from the U.S. attorney's office.

FRIENDS LIKE THESE Probing the relationship between money and politics

by Christi Parsons

They were the fortysomething version of "Friends." They took trips together. Played pickup basketball. Ate dinner, drank beer, talked about their problems and joked about what was going on at work. And every Thursday night they got together to watch "Seinfeld."

But Curt Fleming and his old pals Ron Lowder and Mike Martin haven't been hanging out together lately — except in a federal courtroom in Springfield. In this political town, friendships can sometimes wilt under scrutiny, and jurors had a not-so- innocent take on the relationships of these three buddies.

Fleming and Lowder used to work at the state Department of Public Aid. Martin is a state contractor whose computer consulting contract the other two were supposed to oversee. The feds said Martin lavished gifts on the bureaucrats, footing the bill for trips to Germany and Mexico, taking them out for dinner and drinks and giving them thousands of dollars in cash that he supposedly handed over in white envelopes. Martin and his consulting company, Management Services of Illinois Inc., won revisions in the contract, reaping a 2,000 percent increase in payments. The feds figured that added up to influence peddling. The simpler term is bribery. Fleming, who pleaded guilty, showed up in court to help prosecutors in their case against his old friends, who pleaded innocent.

The details of the friendship were used by opposing attorneys to paint alternate portraits of life in the state capital. One depicts a small company town where people do business with friends and make friends in order to do business. The other portrays a place where deals get made under the table and everyone is out to line his pockets.

In Fleming's account, he, Lowder and Martin were three computer geeks who made friends while working at and with Public Aid during the 1980s and early 1990s. Pretty soon they were getting together in each other's homes, meeting one another's families and sharing their problems. When Mike Martin went through a divorce, he talked it over with his buddies.

At one time, Fleming says, he counted Martin among his five closest friends. And that relationship continued when Martin, who took over the computer consulting firm he used to work for, discovered almost unimaginable success in the rarefied realm of state government contracts.

Martin became a valued campaign contributor to Gov. Jim Edgar, giving gifts of computers and carrying considerable clout with top-ranking Republicans.

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In fact, Lowder's former girlfriend, who hung around with the crowd during that time, thought Martin took the upper hand in the friendship. She thought Lowder changed when Martin was around. "I felt that he saw the power and prestige in the circles Mike ran in, and that that affected him in some way," Tammy Roy now says.

But whether or not Lowder or Fleming were intimidated, their relationship with Martin grew stronger. By the early- and mid-1990s, the men were spending a lot of time together.

Two years ago, a chill went through Springfield's political network: An investigation into Martin's dealings got under way. Suddenly, many of the high rollers Martin had cultivated were cutting him off, rushing to pay for his gifts.

Things began to unravel with his buddies, too. Fearing the possibility of years in prison, Fleming agreed to work with prosecutors and against his friend. In September 1996, he tape recorded conversations with Martin for investigators.

A year later he showed up in the courtroom to tell his story in person.

That moment was visibly awkward for all three. Waiting to take the stand, a red-faced Fleming stood uncomfortably a few feet from Martin and Lowder, his hands clasped in front, his eyes darting sidewise glances. As first Martin, then Lowder turned to face him, Fleming gave each a tight- lipped smile and raised his eyebrows in an almost apologetic manner.

Throughout much of his testimony, Fleming studied his knuckles. Twice he and Lowder shared glances, for that moment seeming to forget their enmity. Neither Lowder nor Martin betrayed any sign of their feelings toward Fleming, who, despite his testimony against them, never said Mike Martin explicitly told him to do favors in exchange for gifts.

Nevertheless, the jury found Martin and Lowder guilty after 3 1/2 days of deliberation. In Springfield it pays to be careful in your choice of friends. And your enemies. As Fleming testified, one member of Martin's family turned to another and hissed, "I hate this guy. " �

Christi Parsons is a Statehouse reporter for the Chicago Tribune.

DEBTS ARE FOREVER

Counting on pay back time with old political allies

by Robert Davis

Chicago's stolid City Hall is filled with old questions, old cliches, old quips that reflect the cynical realism of all that is politics in this metropolis.

And one of the oldest is this:
"Who are the smartest aldermen in the Chicago City Council?" For nearly three decades now, the answer has almost always been the same:

"Ed Burke and then all the rest."

So now there's a new question coming out of the old gray building in Chicago's Loop that has even the most veteran political watchers confused. How could someone so smart do something so stupid? How could someone who has maintained his power and respect for so many years fall into the dumbest of all political gaffes? How could Ed Burke put a law office associate on the city payroll, apparently to provide him with dirt cheap health insurance? Especially one who eventually would agree to tell federal investigators all about it? That's a question that probably won't be answered for a long time. Burke, normally one of the most accessible and quotable politicians in the city, has imposed a policy of only answering written questions and then answering them in bland, noncommittal responses. The U.S. attorney's office is taking its time about confronting Burke with the allegations of former Aid. Joseph Martinez. Even Mayor Richard Daley, who issued a knee-jerk expression of concern when the charges were first revealed, has backed down a bit, reverting to the time-honored, "We should look into it."

Burke is used to wars, especially political ones.

The son of the late 14th Ward Aid. Joseph Burke, he entered the fray earlier than even he expected when his father died in May 1968. Burke, a DePaul University law school student and a Chicago police officer with a cushy political job, had to struggle with formerly loyal precinct captains for control. He often reminisces how he saw his father's former allies plotting to take over the 14th Ward Democratic committeemanjob even at the Southwest Side funeral home during his father's wake.

It was a lesson that never left him, and he rallied supporters to take over the job himself. In 1969, a year later, he became one of the youngest aldermen in Chicago history. In the nearly 30 years since, he has risen to become the council's dean and chairman of the powerful City Council Finance Committee.

Like his first political accomplishments, his current council position was not won easily. Gray-haired as a young man, Burke, now 53, has always looked like a historical icon. The city's demographics and ward lines have changed, and the council now looks like Chicago — with blacks, Hispanics, women, rich, poor, educated, dumb, professional and blue collar. But Burke looks like the old days. His suits are expensive and tailored, his jewelry is anachronistic, his hair is

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white and well-coiffed, and his style is officious, pompous and commanding. He looks like what he is: the second most powerful man in Chicago city government, behind only Mayor Daley.

And Burke works in the old ways as well, a habit that may now be pushing him closer to real trouble than he has been before.

Simply, Burke does things for people. His 14th Ward Democratic organization remains one of the last truly efficient political organizations because he helps his constituents, even though his once lily-white Southwest Side ward is now a polyglot of Irish, Spanish, Eastern European and African American. In the last few years, he has tried to learn Spanish, and, though a lot less than fluent, his attempts at least have endeared him to the Hispanic ward residents who vote for him and his recommended candidates in overwhelming numbers.

On the council, Burke has also reached out. He often shares sponsorship of legislation with other aldermen, even those who are considered his political enemies. He has earned their loyalty. When his recent troubles erupted, most aldermen refused to say anything bad about him. After all, he was being accused of doing favors for people, and nearly every one of the 49 other aldermen has received favors from him over the years.

To many, Burke is a walking contradiction. During the infamous "Council Wars" battles with the late Mayor Harold Washington, Aid. Ed Vrdolyak gave his name to the "Vrdolyak 29" opposition bloc, but it was Burke who was considered the racist because of the zeal with which he attacked Chicago's first black mayor. Yet he and his wife, Illinois Appellate Court Judge Anne Burke, have taken in black foster children since their own children have grown. His ward is blue collar; his social life is black tie.

He is still the most eloquent speaker on the council floor, specializing in eulogies and tributes to Chicago police officers. He and Mayor Daley are political allies; they are not friends, though they have known each other most of their lives.

But it's his allies that Burke is counting on these days.

Friendships in politics, especially the often tawdry kind that plays out in the corridors of City Hall, are fleeting, but debts are lasting.

Eddie Burke, who smartly built up a long debt list over the last 30 years, is counting on payback time now — whether it's moral support, or even a pass from the U.S. attorney's office. And everyone will be watching to see how smart he really has been. �

Robert Davis is an assistant metropolitan editor of the Chicago Tribune and has covered Chicago's City Hall for nearly 20 years.

STING OF THE TIMES

Declining standards for moles in federal probes

by James L. Merriner

It's hard to get good help these days.

Seemingly it's also hard for federal prosecutors to find moles with impressive resumes.

The US. attorney's office in Chicago, which is given to tagging its investigations with lively monikers, has used "moles," or undercover informants, for years. And some, "hired" to secretly tape meetings with politicians and businessmen, have been worthy characters within their own realms. Not lately. Consider the credentials of the moles in two "stings":

"Operation Incubator" of the mid- 1980s and "Operation Silver Shovel" in the mid-1990s. The mole in Incubator was the late Michael Burnett, alias Michael Raymond. The Silver Shovel mole is John Christopher. In moving from Burnett to Christopher, prosecutors have descended from evil of a sophisticated sort to mere bumbling decadence. Six-feet, 235-pounds describes both men. Not much else. Burnett was convicted of arranging at least one murder and was suspected in at least six others. Christopher is just a firearms freak who toted a gun in his waistband and served time for buying an illegal silencer-equipped pistol.

Burnett, a suave swindler who scammed financial securities across the country, posed here as the agent of a New York businessman seeking big- time City Hall collection contracts. He lived on the 15th floor of deluxe Lake Point Tower in Chicago, where he lavishly entertained the local political and financial elite. He was debonair enough to romance and loot the bank accounts of wealthy older women. Nevertheless, he worked hard for the government; he wore a wire in Chicago for 18 months, seven days a week.

To minimize his jail terms, Burnett served as a law enforcement informant from New York to Los Angeles, from Chicago to a U.S. Senate investigative subcommittee. He died last year at age 67 in federal prison in Atlanta.

Christopher, 47, who became a mole in 1991, is a blowhard who scammed illegal dumps in Chicago by posing as a waste hauler. He lives in middle-class suburban Darien and tries to mimic the mobsters in Hollywood movies, affecting Mafia slang and dropping the names of crime bosses. As for the wire, Christopher wore one for more than three years — taking it off each afternoon to run scams on the side.

So is Christopher up to the job? Burnett's handiwork in New York led to the suicide of the Queens borough president and the jailing of the Bronx Democratic leader. To date, no one implicated in Silver Shovel has killed himself. And no top-ranking politician has been indicted.

Despite that, Incubator and Silver Shovel are similar. Incubator convicted 15 people, including four aldermen. So far in Silver Shovel, two aldermen have pleaded guilty, one has been convicted, another awaits trial and a former alderman has been indicted. And both stings demonstrated yet again that, for many Chicago pols, payoffs can trump fear of taking up with strangers. �

James L. Merriner, a frequent contributor to Illinois Issues, covered politics for the Chicago Sun-Times. He's working for The Associated Press in Chicago.

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