Politics

Rezko Trial Rehashes Blagojevich-Mell Feud

CHICAGO (AP) ― Richard Mell is a 69-year-old, backslapping Chicago politician with a long history of getting his way and clearing the decks for friends and family looking for a leg up. He also happens to be the father-in-law of Gov. Rod Blagojevich, and the two don't get along.

The squabble, which has simmered for years, has gone from barstool tale to the front page, thanks to the ongoing federal fraud trial of Antoin "Tony" Rezko -- the fundraiser best known for his history with presidential candidate Sen. Barack Obama and ties to the governor.

A few weeks ago, a witness claimed Mell was angry he hadn't gotten any "spoils" when Blagojevich was elected back in 2002, the veteran pol told reporters he didn't know what the guy was talking about.

"I don't know what spoils are," he said.

But here, where the mayor and county board president hold the jobs their fathers once held, and where just days ago hundreds of victims of political hiring at City Hall were awarded an eye-popping $12 million, everyone knows about spoils.

Including Mell.

After all, he's been around long enough to watch a parade of aldermen carted off to prison for graft -- so many it was said that when they saw each other in prison they'd jokingly holler "quorum call!"

The trial is shining a new light on politics, Chicago style. At its heart, the case centers on allegations that Rezko and his cronies used his clout within the Blagojevich administration to wring kickbacks out of companies seeking millions of dollars worth of investment business with the state.

Neither the governor nor Mell is accused of any wrongdoing. But both are linked to the trial for a variety of reasons that all come back to this:

Without Blagojevich, there are no charges. And without Mell, political observers say, there is no Blagojevich.

"Mell was basically his guardian angel," said Paul Green, a Roosevelt University political scientist. "He was Clarence (the angel in 'It's a Wonderful Life') and Blagojevich was Jimmy Stewart."

Blagojevich, a second-term Democrat, got started in politics after attending a Mell fundraiser to scare up business for his law practice.

There he met Mell's daughter, Patti, whom he married in 1990.

He joined a family headed by a classic Chicago politician. Mell came up through the Cook County Democratic Party, becoming a ward committeeman in the 1970s. The party had great power, deciding who sat on boards that oversaw everything from education to the parks, and which candidates would get its seal of approval, all but assuring them of election.

Mell was a character. Any mention of him is usually followed by the story of how he jumped up and down on his desk during a raucous City Council meeting to make a point.

Two years after Blagojevich joined his family, the alderman demonstrated he had what is valued above all else in Chicago politics: clout.

It showed when Blagojevich decided to challenge Myron Kulas, a longtime state representative who was widely respected and had the support of Rep. Dan Rostenkowski, the Chicago Democrat and one of the most powerful lawmakers in Washington.

It didn't matter. Between Mell's political connections and an estimated 200 political foot soldiers he sent out to campaign for Blagojevich, Kulas didn't have a chance.

"Mell just had tons of people out in the area working for Rod," Kulas recalled.

At the same time, Mell was throwing his support behind Nancy Kaszak in her successful race against state Rep. Alfred Ronan, also with powerful backers.

"I lent her the money, got her furniture, paid for her direct mail," said Mell, who still chuckles at the memory of one of his workers putting a coffin in front of his office with the words "Al Ronan rest in peace."

Blagojevich later was elected to Congress and then governor, in 2002.

Political observers say it's not clear how much any Chicago alderman could help in a statewide race, but Mell seems a likely source of aid.

"He's got connections like crazy," said Chris Mooney, a political science professor at the University of Illinois at Springfield. "How does he (Blagojevich) get the support of party chieftains downstate who he's probably never had any contact with? Mell."

As much as Mell has been Blagojevich's patron, the two can't stand each other.

Almost as soon as he was elected governor, Blagojevich reportedly felt it important to show he was not merely a creation of his father-in-law. In 2005, without telling Mell, the governor shut down a landfill run by a distant relative of Mell's wife.

Blagojevich's office said the governor acted after hearing that the relative was claiming waste haulers could dump illegal trash without having to worry about state regulators.

Mell was livid. He said his son-in-law was willing to "throw anyone under the bus."

"He uses everybody and then discards 'em," he told Chicago magazine. In a brief interview with The Associated Press, Mell expressed sadness about how the feud has created a rift in his family, but declined to say more.

For his part, the governor has gone so far as boasting about his ability to make tough decisions, even those involving family members, was evidence of his own "testicular virility."

In the middle of the hubbub, back in 2005, Mell also accused the governor's chief fundraiser, Christopher Kelly, of trading government jobs for campaign contributions. He later retracted the allegations after Kelly threatened to sue.

And now Mell's name has surfaced at Rezko's trial.

Money manager Sheldon Pekin testified that after arranging a $50 million deal involving a teachers' pension fund, he agreed to split a finder's fee with Mell. He said Mell never got paid.

Mell, a successful businessman, has denied any role in the scheme, or even meeting Pekin.

That doesn't mean Mell wasn't after more clout when his son-in-law took office.

"He wanted political power," said Dick Simpson, a former alderman who is now a political scientist at the University of Illinois at Chicago. "He thought he would be directing more of the governor's office than he did."
It's a characterization Mell doesn't totally discount.

"I wasn't interested in financial things," he told the AP. "I was interested in helping people with (state) positions, which we never got."

Today, like a lot of aldermen who have seen their influence wane with a court ruling that bans most political hiring, Mell does not have the power he once did. But he still has political muscle.

Last summer, state Rep. Richard Bradley learned that Patti Blagojevich's sister, Deborah Mell, was running for his job. Bradley, a one-time precinct captain for Richard Mell's organization, had planned to run for re-election -- until Mell told him his daughter was intent on taking his job.

"His popularity and resources would come to bear in a major way and I was in a no-win situation," said Bradley, who stepped aside. "It was a race I wouldn't win."

When Deborah Mell's name appears on the ballot this fall, it will be alone. Nobody is running against her.

(© 2008 The Associated Press. All Rights Reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.)

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