Long before the Feds cuffed Illinois Gov. Rod Blagojevich, the politician—known for his carefully cultivated black mane, and, more recently, for his foul mouth—had another vocal critic: his father-in-law.
It was Richard Mell, a powerful Chicago alderman, who introduced his daughter, Patti, to the young, ambitious lawyer at a fundraiser in the early '80s. Mell would orchestrate the young man's rise to the state legislature, the United States Congress and the governor's office.
When Mell boasted about being "the governor-in-law," as Dick Simpson, a former Chicago City Council member put it, Blagojevich would seethe.
But it remains conventional wisdom in Illinois that Blagojevich would never have become a big deal politician without Mell—a man who would later, after a rift with his son-in-law, publicly accuse the governor of trading state jobs for financial contributions.
"Mell wanted to be the power behind the throne," said Simpson, now the head of political science at the University of Illinois at Chicago.
Silver-haired and lanky, a backslapper with sharp elbows, Mell, 69, has always played for keeps. When Harold Washington became the city's first African-American mayor in 1983, and threatened to squash old machine pols like Mell, the fight became nasty. In an interview with NEWSWEEK before the 2008 November elections, Mell recalled the political street fighting of the '80s—and his own willingness to bare his knuckles.
"We were hearing this talk of 'It's our turn now,' and 'We're going to cut you off at the knees!" Mell said. "So we figured, if someone wants to cut your throat, you don't give them the knife to do it."
Mell eventually styled a workable relationship with Washington. But when Washington died in 1987, and a wild brawl broke out in City Hall in choosing his successor, it was Mell whose actions largely symbolized the chaos of the night. He leaped atop a table, his arms waving frantically. Angry protestors jeered as Mell and other white aldermen hand-picked a quiet, go-along black colleague, Eugene Sawyer, to serve as acting mayor—a man viewed by many African-Americans as a puppet to white machine powers. Tensions were so fierce that some aldermen donned bulletproof vests. Through most of the night, Mell smiled broadly.
"Mell is a wheeler-dealer who loves politics like a sport," says Simpson. "He's a king-maker."
He succeeded in making young Blagojevich a political king by enlisting his army of supporters and contributors. But tensions grew between the men, and flared into the public in 2005. Blagojevich shut down a landfill run by a distant cousin of the Mell family. To Mell, it was the last straw of an ungrateful, cocky young man who didn't realize who had made the path for him.
Mell went public, claiming Blagojevich was trading positions for money—a charge that surely caught the attention of prosecutors. There were echoes in the complaint made last week by federal prosecutor Patrick Fitzgerald, who charged that Blagojevich was soliciting financial favors in exchange for the United States Senate seat left vacant by the election as president of Barack Obama. It was Blagojevich who had the power to name Obama's replacement—at least before the scandal broke. Now Blagojevich faces calls for his own ouster. The state's Attorney General, Lisa Madigan, has tried to have him removed from office as unfit, a move the state Supreme Court rebuffed on Wednesday. Legislators, including those in his own party, vow they will move to impeach him.
For the first time today since his arrest, the governor spoke with reporters in front of his Chicago home. "I can't wait to begin to tell my side of the story," he said, adding that he was "dying to talk" to the people of Illinois. But he said there was "a time and place for everything," and quoted his hero, Elvis Presley, telling reporters, "hang loose."
Mell does not speak with Blagojevich. Indeed, he has been on the outs with his daughter, too. So that Mell can see his grandchildren, one meeting was arranged at a skating rink—since the alderman he has not been welcome in the Blagojevich home. Mell told reporters recently that he spoke to Patti shortly after the arrest for the first time "in a long time." He described his daughter as "loyal, sometimes to a fault," and said she would "jump down my throat" when he argued with her husband.
He has defended his daughter's salty language on federal tapes, saying she was "in a pressure cooker." "Barbara Walters called her a potty mouth," Mell told reporters. "I wonder what Barbara Walters sometimes says in a heated moment."
In general, however, Mell has kept mum on the scandal. Reached by NEWSWEEK for this article, Mell asked simply, "Is it about Blagojevich?" referring to his son-in-law by his last name. He has declined to comment on family matters, other than to declare his concerns about his daughter and grandchildren. Mell has not indicated whether he thinks his son-in-law should resign or stay and fight, or to signal his view of how Obama's seat should be filled.
Mell's king-making days have scarcely ended. In this year's election, he helped another daughter, Deborah Mell, win election to the state legislature. Deborah Mell, a lesbian and advocate of greater rights for gay people, was once arrested at a protest for gay marriage. The alderman has been clear about supporting her. "If your child comes to you and tells you this and you really have a problem with it and it becomes a real issue," he told reporters, "you really don't deserve to call yourself a parent."
Deborah Mell remains close to Patti. On the day of the arrest, Deborah was photographed getting out of a car outside the Blagojevich home on the North Side of Chicago, taking soda pop and some other supplies to the besieged family, which includes two young children. She expressed worry about Patti to Sun Times reporters. "This is absolutely not my sister. Patti is a mother, a sister and a devoted wife."
Alderman Mell, who has made a small fortune in the industrial springs business, remains a powerful presence on the City Council. He votes with Mayor Richard M. Daley on almost all matters-like many other Chicago aldermen do.
Don Rose, a former Chicago political consultant who worked for former Mayor Jane Byrne, said Mell today was a "dyed-in-the-wool machine guy," but that he had started his career with the independent-minded, reform wing of the Democratic Party. But Mell, known as a politician who values the practical approach—and getting things done—soon allied himself with the powerful.
Rose recalls standing alongside Mell at the old Bismark Hotel, where the Chicago Democratic Party regulars would meet to slate candidates—hardly an exercise in serious debate. A candidate's name would be announced, as Rose recalls it, and every voice in the place would shout "aye."
"Mell had this sardonic sense of humor that can laugh at it all," said Rose. "He turned to me and laughed and said, 'We're all just capons."
But he knew the importance of voting the right way. The governor is in serious trouble. His father-in-law, on the other hand, is almost always on the winning side.