Category Archives: 1930s

A Mobster in Hollywood

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The Mob Comes to Hollywood

Los Angeles never had a mob like those that ran the streets in Chicago, New York, Detroit or Kansas City. Corruption in the City of Angels was a top-down affair—overseen by politicians in City Hall. Local vice kings, Charlie Crawford, Albert Marco, and Bob Gans managed illegal liquor, gambling and prostitution and shared profits with the politicians. Crooked members of the Los Angeles police force supplied the muscle. As a cabal, some called “The City Hall Gang,” they had vice in the city sewed up with no room for outsiders.

(1928) – View of Los Angeles City Hall decorated with banners for its opening ceremony. Photo courtesy Water & Power.

Eastern mobsters attempted on several occasions to get a toehold in Los Angeles. Infamous Chicago mob boss, Al Capone, visited Southern California in December 1927. He traveled by train south to San Diego, and stopped in Orange County on his way back. When he returned to the Biltmore Hotel, LAPD kept a close watch on him. On December 13th, LAPD detective Edward “Roughhouse” Brown escorted him and his entourage to the Santa Fe station to board an eastbound train.

The only successful mob-backed racket to gain power in Los Angeles was through the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees (IATSE). IATSE was weak, struggling to protect its members against powerful studio heads like Louis B. Mayer of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer and Harry Warner of Warner Bros. The workers wanted fair pay and safe conditions, but they lacked the leverage to fight the studio bosses.

Premiere of “Morocco” at Grauman’s Chinese, 1930.

It was 1935, and the mob’s timing could not have been better. The Great Depression gripped America. Hollywood seemed safe at first. But then, theater attendance dropped. Studios cut wages. Workers grew angry and desperate. The mob realized competing with the entrenched local vice lords, with support from the mayor’s office and police, was a non-starter. However, they found a lucrative backdoor. Hollywood.

In 1935, the mob sent William “Willie” Bioff, a Chicago mob associate, as the West Coast representative of IATSE. He seemed to the workers like an answered prayer. He vowed to get them the money and working conditions they wanted.

A Vulnerable Industry

Bioff joined George Browne, an ambitious IATSE official. They realized the movie industry was vulnerable, and those vulnerabilities presented them with the perfect way to make money. If a single projectionist stopped working, a theater could not show a movie. If the stagehands walked off a set, filming stopped.

With Frank “The Enforcer” Nitti backing him, Browne had won the presidency of IATSE in 1934. He then appointed Bioff as his personal representative for West Coast operations.

The Price of Peace

Bioff did not care about union pride or worker rights. The first thing he did when he arrived in Los Angeles was to meet with the top studio executives. He gave them a choice. They could pay him, or he would call a strike that would shut down every movie studio in Hollywood.

Studio moguls knew that a strike meant losing thousands of dollars a day.

The extortion system was well-organized. Bioff demanded fifty thousand dollars a year from smaller studios and one hundred thousand dollars a year from the major studios. He collected the money in cash, often packed into brown paper bags or briefcases. For the studios, it was a cheap way to keep the cameras rolling.

To make sure the studio bosses knew he was serious, Bioff occasionally ordered small, sudden strikes. He would shut down a soundstage for a few hours as a demonstration of his power. The studio heads learned to pay on time.

While Bioff was getting rich, he had to keep the union members happy so they would not rebel. He used his power to win a major victory for them in 1936. He negotiated a huge wage increase and a closed-shop agreement. This meant that the studios could only hire IATSE members for technical jobs.

To the average stagehand making a few dollars a week, Bioff was a hero, the tough guy who stood up to the multi-millionaire studio bosses and won.

With the union firmly under his control, Bioff lived like a king in Southern California. He bought a massive estate in the San Fernando Valley. He raised prize cattle, drove luxury cars, and wore expensive jewelry.

He mingled with movie stars and studio executives. Even though everyone knew he was a gangster, he was a welcome guest at exclusive parties. Hollywood stars have always had a thing for bad guys. The frisson of proximity to danger, without the consequences, was intoxicating. Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel enjoyed the same treatment when he moved to Los Angeles. He dined with stars and considered an acting career like his childhood friend from the old neighborhood, George Raft.

Bioff ruled the Hollywood labor scene with an iron fist, crushing any internal dissent. If a union member questioned where their dues were going, Bioff’s thugs would beat them up or kick them out of the union, which meant they could never work in Hollywood again.

The Pen and the Prosecutor

By the late 1930s, the first cracks in Bioff’s empire revealed themselves. Early signs of trouble came from within the labor movement itself. Other unions and independent worker groups grew tired of IATSE’s monopoly and Bioff’s thuggish methods.

A group of Hollywood actors, writers, and progressive workers began to look closely at the union’s finances. They noticed that millions of dollars in union dues were missing, and that Bioff seemed to be working closer with the studio bosses than with the workers.

The most damaging blow outside the studios came from the press. A crusading, syndicated journalist named Westbrook Pegler started a fierce, one-man media campaign against Bioff. Writing for the New York World-Telegram and other papers across the country, Pegler used his widely read column, Fair Enough, to dig into Bioff’s dark past.

Pegler discovered that before coming to California, Bioff was a low-level thug and pimp in Illinois. Most importantly, Pegler uncovered an old 1922 Chicago conviction against Bioff for pandering—operating a brothel and taking money from a prostitute. Bioff had served only a few days of his six-month sentence before skipping town.

Pegler famously mocked Bioff in print, calling him a “panderer” and a “cheap thug” who was holding the entire movie industry hostage.

Pegler’s explosive columns ran week after week, exposing how a fugitive criminal was living in a California mansion while running a major American labor union. The public outcry from Pegler’s work was so loud that California authorities could no longer look the other way.

Bioff was arrested and forced to return to Illinois to finish his old prison sentence. This bad publicity shattered Bioff’s image as a legitimate labor leader and gave federal investigators the perfect opening.

Federal Trial

A determined federal prosecutor named Boris Kostelanetz stepped in to build a major tax evasion and extortion case against Bioff and George Browne. Investigators meticulously traced the paper trail of the studio bribes. Federal agents convinced studio executives to testify about the secret payments.

In 1941, Willie Bioff and George Browne were put on trial for federal racketeering in a New York courtroom. The trial exposed the deep rot in Hollywood’s labor system. One of the most important witnesses was Nicholas Schenck, the powerful president of Loew’s Inc., the company that owned Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM).

Schenck sat in the witness chair and described his first meetings with Bioff. He told the jury that Bioff did not make requests; he made threats. Schenck testified that Bioff looked him in the eye and said, “Your business is a fragile one. A strike would ruin you.”

Schenck explained the exact mechanics of the payments to the court. The money had to be paid in cash, and no checks or receipts were allowed. To get the cash, studio executives had to falsify their own company expense records. They hid the bribe money under fake ledger entries like “publicity expenses” or “legal fees” to keep their accounting books clean.

Other studio executives, like Leo Spitz of RKO, testified about how Bioff showed off his power. Spitz told the court that if a payment was even a day late, Bioff would call a sudden strike on a movie set. The stagehands would drop their tools and walk off, costing the studio thousands of dollars an hour.

This testimony ruined the defense. Bioff’s lawyers tried to argue that the money was just a voluntary gift for helping keep labor peace. But the raw, detailed stories from the studio heads proved it was flat-out extortion.

The jury took less than two hours to find Bioff and Browne guilty. Bioff was sentenced to ten years in prison, while Browne received eight years.

Bioff Makes a Deal

Faced with a long prison sentence in a maximum-security penitentiary, Bioff chose to talk. He became a government witness and testified against his former masters in the Chicago Outfit.

Willie Bioff in front of Judge Fricke’s court.

In a sensational 1943 trial, Bioff took the stand and explained exactly how the mob controlled IATSE and extorted the Hollywood studios. His testimony led to the conviction of top Chicago gangsters, including Paul Ricca, Phil D’Andrea, and Frank Nitti. Nitti was deathly afraid of confined spaces. Knowing that a federal prison cell would elevate his claustrophobia to an intolerable level, he committed suicide rather than face prison because of Bioff’s betrayal.

Bioff’s cooperation earned him an early release from prison in 1945. He knew the mob would be looking for him, so he changed his name to William Nelson. He moved to Phoenix, Arizona. He lived a quiet, normal life. But he also took a calculated risk and worked in the casino business in Las Vegas. He relied on his old connections to stay afloat while trying to maintain a low profile.

The Battle of Black Friday

Bioff’s removal from IATSE led to a new, incredibly violent struggle known as the Hollywood Jurisdictional Strikes. This was a bitter war between IATSE and a more progressive union called the Conference of Studio Unions, or CSU, led by Herbert Sorrell. The CSU represented painters, carpenters, and decorators, and they accused IATSE of still being a puppet for the studio bosses.

The battle for control of Hollywood film crews reached a breaking point on October 5, 1945. This day became known as “Black Friday.” Over one thousand CSU strikers and their supporters formed a tight line across the entrance of the Warner Bros. studio in Burbank, aiming to block anyone from entering the lot to work.

Hollywood strike. Photo courtesy UCLA Special Collections.

When IATSE members and studio replacement workers arrived, a massive fight broke out. The studio guards and the Burbank police stepped in to break up the crowd, but things quickly got out of hand. Men fought with clubs, heavy iron pipes, chains, and brass knuckles.

The scene became chaotic. Studio guards on top of the Warner Bros. walls pumped tear gas into the crowd. They also turned high-pressure fire hoses on the strikers, knocking people down on the slick pavement. Striker sympathizers overturned cars in the street to block police vehicles from entering the fray.

By the end of the day, dozens of people were badly hurt. Over forty people had to go to the hospital with broken bones and deep cuts. The police arrested more than three hundred strikers over the course of the week. This violent riot shocked the public and forced the state government to step in.

The studios used the violence to label the CSU as dangerous radicals and communists. Apparently, the CSU was more terrifying to Hollywood than a group of out-of-town gangsters.  

The studio bosses helped IATSE win the labor war. By the end of the 1940s, the CSU was destroyed. IATSE secured its position as the dominant union for Hollywood film crews, a position it still holds today.

Bye-bye, Bioff

On November 4, 1955, Bioff’s past caught up with him. He walked out of his home in Phoenix and got into his pickup truck. When he turned the key in the ignition, a bomb wired to the starter exploded.

The blast destroyed the truck and killed Bioff instantly. It was a classic mob hit. Delayed punishment for his testimony a decade earlier. The mob did not forget or forgive. Nobody was ever charged in the case.

The story of William Bioff and IATSE remains one of the darkest chapters in the history of American labor and the entertainment industry. It showed how easily a union meant to protect working people could be captured by organized crime. It also shaped the future of Hollywood.

The systems of bargaining and the division of labor created during Bioff’s reign of extortion set the rules for how movies were made for decades to come. The stagehands and technicians finally got their strong union, but the cost was a legacy of violence, corruption, and fear that took Hollywood a generation to forget.

The Jake Walk

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On January 18, 1931, a sixty-year-old Whittier man went to see his doctor. He complained of stomach cramps, nausea, vomiting, and severe diarrhea. Unable to diagnose the patient, the doctor sent him to the local hospital for tests. The lab tested him for amebic and bacillary dysentery—both were negative. They administered a Wasserman test for syphilis and he tested negative.

Greenleaf Blvd, downtown Whittier c. 1931

The hospital kept him under observation without arriving at a definitive diagnosis. Maybe he had caught a seasonal influenza. After three days, his symptoms had almost entirely cleared, so they released him and he returned home.

About ten days later he developed muscle soreness in his calves, and stiffness and numbness in his toes. The symptoms worsened. He had difficulty walking and suffered a bilateral foot drop. When he tried to walk on his own, he was forced to hold on to something for support.

His doctor reported the case to another Whittier physician, Dr. Frank G. Crandall, as suspected poliomyelitis. Polio would be devastating. There was no vaccine or cure for the disease. A patient could die or spend years in bed without recovering.

Within days, he lost the use of his fingers. His wrists dropped. His hands atrophied. Doctors transferred him to County General Hospital, where he remained confined to bed—unable to walk, stand, dress, or feed himself.

Dr. Crandall consulted with Dr. George H. Roth of the Los Angeles County Health Department. The polio virus was too small to be seen with the available technology, so doctors manually checked for muscle weakness or “physical defects.”  Drs. Crandall and Roth agreed that the patient did not have polio.

If not polio, then what else could render a man helpless in such a short period of time?

Young polio victim in iron lung c. 1948. Photo courtesy of Los Angeles Public Library Photo Collection.

They had heard reports from the Midwest and South of a malady caused by drinking adulterated Jamaica Ginger. During the summer of 1930, 10,000 cases of the disease were reported in the South.

Jamaica Ginger was a patent medicine in continuous use since the 1820s used to treat everything from flatulence to upper respiratory infections and menstrual disorders. It was a common household remedy, which made its poisoning even more monstrous. The victims in some cases were children.

The extract typically contained 70% to 90% ethanol by weight, which was necessary to keep the ginger oleoresin in solution. Not only did Jake, as it was called, have a kick, as a medicine it was legal to purchase during Prohibition. That was a huge plus for people who couldn’t afford to frequent local speakeasies or buy from a bootlegger. When compared to standard whiskey, which contains 40% to 50% alcohol, a two-ounce bottle of Jake, costing about fifty cents, was a cheap high.

As soon as the government learned about the legal loophole, it was determined to close it. They did it by requiring manufacturers of Jamaica Ginger to include a high concentration of bitter ginger solids to make it too disgusting to drink.

The government’s solution worked for a while until some manufacturers and distributors bypassed the regulations. They experimented with various substances that would fool government tests and finally found a cheap industrial plasticizer called tri-orthocresyl phosphate (TOCP). A powerful neurotoxin.

Following the Whittier case, two men in Los Angeles, J. D. Hoagland (46) of 1129 ½ Mignonette Street, and David Grant (66) of 403 Court Street, sought treatment for Jake paralysis. Dr. John S. Fox, assistant city health officer, supervised their treatment. The victims admitted to consuming the ginger extract. One of them drank a bottle a day for 15 days, and the other downed five bottles a day for five days.

Dr. Fox issued a warning against the use of the extract as a beverage. He said a single drink could result in paralysis. But even with Dr. Fox’s warning, four new cases were reported from the North Bunker Hill district. One man not only suffered from “drop foot,” a defining characteristic of drinking the poison, but his face and limbs were also paralyzed. Another victim permanently lost their sight.

City laboratories analyzed samples of the extract sold in drug and grocery stores on Bunker Hill. The labs found TOCP.

(ca. 1939)- Panoramic view of Bunker Hill as seen from City Hall. The intersection of Hill and First Streets is visible at lower right. Photo courtesy of the Los Angeles Department of Water & Power collection.

The number of victims continued to rise. Many of them lived in cheap hotel rooms in the vicinity of Seventh and Central and San Pedro Streets.  They said they obtained their extract from drug stores in the area. Many cases went unreported and the health department asked physicians to submit reports so they could track the spread the disease—which was fast becoming an epidemic.

Image created using AI

Reporters heard from one health official that the Jamaica ginger blamed for the paralysis cases arrived in the city in barrel lots. They had no way of knowing how much of it had been sold, and the situation was further complicated because the paralysis did not develop until ten days to two weeks after consumption.

Dr. J. L. Pomeroy, Los Angeles County Health Officer, investigated each of the cases and found the source of the poisoned extract was a New York firm operating under the name of Jordan Brothers. A local man, Jacob Rosenbloom, his wife, and sons, bottled, labeled, and distributed locally two-ounce bottles of the extract through their company, California Extract Company.

One thing became evident early on. The victims of Jake paralysis were among the most vulnerable of the city’s residents. They were poor, some of them were pensioners living in rooms in the faded Victorian mansions on Bunker Hill. The same was true of the thousands of victims in the Midwest and South. They were not people of means. Ginger Jake was the poor man’s way of getting a drink of liquor. During Prohibition, sellers could still offer products with high alcohol content if they classified them as medicinal, culinary, industrial, or cosmetic. People drank vanilla extract, cologne, medicinal bitters, and Jamaica ginger.

Managing the Jake crisis fell largely to local officials. The Federal Hygienic Laboratory—the underfunded precursor to the National Institutes of Health—had fewer than a dozen physicians and little authority. The only federal agency with real jurisdiction was the Treasury Department’s Bureau of Prohibition, whose agents carried badges, tommy guns, and responsibility for anything involving alcohol.

Veterans Home Photo coutesy Los Angeles Public Library

The horror of awakening to find you could no longer get out of bed was made even worse when in early March 1931, thirty-seven veterans in the Soldiers Home in Sawtelle (West Los Angeles) were struck down after drinking Jake. All of them were in critical condition, except for two who died.

The victims in the Soldiers Home were already dependent upon institutions. They were likely dealing with disability, poverty, trauma, or alcoholism.

Promises were made to find and prosecute those responsible for the manufacture and sale of the lethal ginger concoction. The Pure Food and Drug Act of 1906 was invoked, but the consequences were laughable. A first offense was punishable by a fine not to exceed $500 and/or up to one year in prison. Subsequent offenses were punishable by a fine of not less than $1000 and/or up to one year in prison. Even the violations involving interstate commerce were light.

Jake paralysis was killing people, or letting them survive with no hope, and the worst punishment a violator could receive was a fine and a sentence that could be served in the county jail. One wonders if the poison had been added to bonded liquor smuggled in from Canada and served to the swells who could afford it if the outcome would have been different.

There were attempts made to find a cure. Researchers at the University of Oklahoma claimed they had not found “a single case of a Negro being affected.” They suspected Black Americans had a natural immunity. To test their theory, the dosed black and white chickens with known paralytic ginger extract because they believed that the black feathered chickens were the genetic equivalent of Black Americans.  

The chickens, black and white, fell ill indiscriminately. Researchers concluded that “color plays no part” in the disease.

Long before historians and toxicologists explained how TOCP ravaged the nervous system, ordinary people understood the epidemic through the language available to them: limber leg, numbness, shame, failed romance, neighborhood gossip, and song.

The most heartfelt commentary on Jake came from blues musicians. Jake paralysis entered blues music because it had already become a part of everyday life. The lyrics spoke of the effects of the paralysis in ways that weren’t reported in newspapers.

In 1930, Willie Ray wrote “I Got the Jake Leg Blues”

“I woke up this morning,

I couldn’t get out of my bed,

This stuff they call jake leg,

Had me nearly dead.”

The mostly male sufferers did not just lose their ability to walk without evidence of “Jake Leg,” they were just as often made impotent by the disease.  

“I’m a Jake walk papa

I’m a Jake walk papa

 And the Jake walk’s got me now

Can’t eat, can’t sleep

Can’t even make my woman smile.”


Willie Lofton, “Jake Walk Blues,” 1930

In May of 1931, some Oklahomans organized United Victims of Jamaica Ginger Paralysis. They claimed 30,000 to 50,000 members. Oklahoma Governor William “Alfalfa Bill” Murray said, “There are three kinds of people I haven’t much use for. One is the man with Jakeitis; another is the investor on the stock exchange, and the other I won’t mention.” Sadly, many others shared his low opinion of the victims. With their characteristic walk, sufferers were physically and mentally abused in their communities.

Ed McGoldrick on the witness stand– his wheelchair. Photo dated: April 25, 1931.
Courtesy Los Angeles Public Library, Herald Collection.

Iron leg braces worn by some victims were called “Jake Socks.” Temperance advocates and preachers joked about the physical twitching and shuffling. Some suggested God was forcing sinners to do a “forbidden dance” as a warning to anyone who contemplated breaking Prohibition Laws.

Law suits went nowhere. Activists lobbied Congress for years, but it never passed a bill for victims’ relief.

The suffering of Jake victims became a source of ridicule for temperance advocates and preachers, many of whom interpreted the paralysis as moral punishment for violating Prohibition.

At every stage, the Jake epidemic exposed the brutal realities of class in America. The victims were overwhelmingly poor, vulnerable, and disposable in the eyes of institutions that failed to protect them. Their suffering became a source of ridicule long before it became a source of public responsibility.

Note: There were many songs about Jake Leg. This one is by the Ray Brothers.

Film Noir Friday–Saturday Matinee: The Wrong Road (1937)

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Welcome! The lobby of the Deranged L.A. Crimes theater is open! Grab a bucket of popcorn, some Milk Duds and a Coke and find a seat. Tonight’s feature is THE WRONG ROAD, starrng Richard Cromwell, Helen Mack, and Lionel Atwill.

Enjoy the movie!

IMDB says:

Bank teller Jimmy Caldwell and his fiance, Ruth Holden, grow weary of struggling to make ends meet and decide to rob Jimmy’s bank. The selfish young couple agree that even if they spend ten years in prison, it will not matter because they will have the money when they are released. During what appears to be a normal transaction, Jimmy gives Ruth $100,000 that he has taken from the vault, and after they hide the money in a music box, which they mail to Ruth’s Uncle Billy for safekeeping, they turn themselves in. Mike Roberts, a detective for the bank’s insurance company, tries to convince them to lighten their sentence by returning the money, but they consider the money rightfully theirs and refuse.

Rusty the Stool Pigeon Cat

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Not every prison pet lives up to the example set by Mr. Jingles, the hyperintelligent field mouse in Stephen King’s The Green Mile. In the novel, Mr. Jingles becomes the companion of inmate Eduard Delacroix, performing tricks and bringing moments of wonder to prisoners and guards alike. The small mouse represents hope, joy, and the possibility of miracles.

The film adaptation is set in 1935, in a fictional Southern prison. Across the country that same year, a real prison pet roamed the old block at Folsom Prison: a cat named Rusty.

Born at Folsom in 1922, Rusty quickly endeared himself to guards with his ability to sniff out contraband food in prisoners’ cells. At the time, all food preparation was strictly forbidden. If an inmate were discovered roasting a potato or heating a sandwich on a smuggled device, he could be sent to solitary confinement.

Rusty made enforcement easier.

On the trail of forbidden treats, creeping low to the ground, the end of his tail twitching slightly, Rusty stalked the aptly named catwalk until he caught the scent of food. Once he had the location, he planted himself in front of an offender’s cell and meowed loudly until a guard arrived. Like today’s police dogs trained to detect bombs or narcotics, Rusty rarely failed. If guards found Rusty in front of a cell, they knew they had a righteous bust.

A decade or more into Rusty’s career as a professional snitch, guards found a kitten they believed to be his son. They named him Blue.

Soon afterward, guards discovered a tiny finch perched atop a wall, alone in a nest and apparently abandoned by its mother. They named the foundling Chirp. Guards nursed Blue and Chirp during their convalescence, and the pair quickly bonded. After that, no one ever saw one without the other. They ate together, and often, while Blue napped in front of Warden Court Smith’s office, Chirp perched comfortably on his head.

Blue showed none of his father’s aptitude as a snitch. He seemed content to wander the prison with a bird on his head.

Occasionally, Rusty, Blue, and Chirp made the news. Then, in 1937, Rusty suffered a stroke. He survived but was forced to retire. He spent his final months in well-earned leisure.

On January 28, 1938, after sixteen years of faithful service, Rusty passed away. Clerk Joseph H. Doherty of the warden’s staff eulogized the departed cat:

“He would go to a cell door and sit there if he detected the odor of food until a guard came. He couldn’t be bribed either. He wouldn’t have a thing to do with anybody in convict clothes.”

Befitting his stature, prison guards planned to bury Rusty in a bed of flowers on a nearby hillside.

The First With The Latest: Aggie Underwood, Crime Reporter — Aggie’s Birthday 2025

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Aggie interviews unknown woman.

For more than forty years, Agness “Aggie” Underwood covered the crimes that terrified—and fascinated—Los Angeles. Murderers, mobsters, and corrupt officials all crossed her path. But the moment that set her career in motion wasn’t a gunshot or a headline. It was a pair of silk stockings she couldn’t afford.

In 1926, money was tight. Aggie and her husband, Harry, had a daughter, Evelyn, and a son, George. Her younger sister Leona lived with them and helped with expenses. Still, Aggie wore Leona’s hand-me-down silk stockings. One day, she asked Harry for money to buy a new pair. He said no. Aggie told him that if he wouldn’t give her money for stockings, she’d earn it herself.

She was bluffing. She hadn’t worked outside the home since 1920.

Harry, Aggie, Evelyn, George

The next day, out of nowhere, her best friend Evelyn offered her a temporary switchboard job at the Daily Record. Aggie grabbed it. The stockings would be hers.

She described her first impression of the newsroom:

“I looked out on a weird wonderland… Shirt-sleeved men attacked beaten-up typewriters, which snarled and balked. Sheets of paper snowed on a central point called the city desk, whatever that meant. Men gyrated through the crazy quilt of splintered desks and tables. It was a jumble.”

The job was supposed to be temporary. But Gertrude Price, the women’s editor (writing as Cynthia Grey), saw something in Aggie and became her mentor. Aggie helped with the annual Cynthia Grey Christmas baskets, and Gertrude encouraged her to learn the business.

Christmas baskets

Aggie loved the chaos of the newsroom, and she loved being close to a breaking story. In December 1927, the city was horrified by the murder of twelve-year-old Marian Parker by William Edward Hickman, who called himself “The Fox.”

When news of Hickman’s capture in Oregon broke, Aggie couldn’t contain herself:

“As the bulletins pumped in and the city-side worked furiously at localizing, I couldn’t keep myself in my niche. I committed the unpardonable sin of looking over shoulders of reporters as they wrote. I got underfoot. In what I thought was exasperation, Rod Brink, the city editor, said:
‘All right, if you’re so interested, take this dictation.’

I typed the dictation—part of the main running story.

I was sunk.

I wanted to be a reporter.”

William Edward Hickman [Photo courtesy of LAPL]

She began writing human interest stories, covering fashion and women’s clubs. In May 1931, her first major break came when Charles H. Crawford (a.k.a. the Grey Fox) and reporter Herbert F. Spencer were shot and killed.

Crawford was a former saloon keeper turned vice king. Spencer had worked with a political crusading weekly, the Critic of Critics. They were both involved in the shadowy network known as “The Combination”—a marriage of City Hall and organized crime.

After the murders, David H. Clark, a former deputy DA and candidate for judge, surrendered. But no one had interviewed Clark’s parents. Aggie called every Clark in the phonebook until she found them in Highland Park.

She got the interview. The result: a front-page, above-the-fold story titled Mrs. Clark Says Son is Innocent. Her first double-column byline.

Later, she scored another exclusive with Spencer’s widow. Aggie admitted she was inexperienced—and that honesty earned her the story.

Clark was acquitted. But he drifted. In 1953, he killed a friend’s wife in a drunken fight and died in Chino prison in 1954.

Aggie had found her niche—finding the doors no one else knocked on.

In 1935, she joined the Evening Herald and Express, owned by William Randolph Hearst. She stayed with Hearst the rest of her career.

By 1936, Aggie had a reputation as a reporter who could crack a case. During the Samuel Whittaker case, she interviewed the grieving husband, a retired organist, after his wife Ethel was killed during an apparent hotel robbery.

She staged a dramatic photo of Whittaker pointing his cane at the alleged killer, James Fagan Culver. But as she posed the shot, she noticed something odd: Whittaker winked at Culver.

Culver & Whittaker

Was it a tic? No. She waited. Nothing. She discreetly pulled Detective Thad Brown aside:

“Thad, ask that kid why Whittaker winked at him. Don’t let the kid wriggle out of it. Whittaker did wink at him. There’s no mistake about it.”

Brown humored her. Culver cracked. He confessed: Whittaker had staged the robbery, armed Culver with a .38, and planned to kill his wife himself. He did—then turned his gun on Culver. Culver escaped, wounded.

Whittaker was convicted and given life for his wife’s murder. On his way to San Quentin, he said:

“I hope God may strike me dead before I get to my cell if I am guilty of this horrible crime.”

He dropped dead of a heart attack.

Aggie on Norton, January 15, 1947.

In January 1947, Aggie began reporting on the body of an unknown woman found bisected in Leimert Park. She would become known as the Black Dahlia.

Many claim to have coined the name. Aggie said she got it from LAPD Lt. Ray Giese:

“This is something you might like, Agness. I’ve found out they called her the ‘Black Dahlia’ around that drugstore where she hung out down in Long Beach.”

Like it? She LOVED it.

The Jane Doe was soon identified as 22-year-old Elizabeth Short of Medford, MA. Aggie interviewed the first serious suspect, Robert “Red” Manley. Then she was pulled from the case.

She brought in her embroidery hoop while she cooled her heels in the office. Snickers followed. One reporter said:

“What do you think of that? Here’s the best reporter on the Herald, on the biggest day of one of the best stories in years—sitting in the office doing fancy work!”

She was reassigned, then yanked again. And then—she was promoted to city editor.

Dahlia conspiracy theorists say Aggie was close to solving the case. Some believe she was silenced. But promoting her to city editor—the boss of all the Dahlia reporters—was a strange way to shut her up.

Still… what if she was onto something?

When asked later if she knew who killed Elizabeth Short, she said yes—but never named him.

Mercy? Resignation? Maybe both.

Aggie understood something this city still struggles with: some crimes don’t end in arrests. They end in silence.

She covered L.A.’s most deranged crimes. As city editor, she won dozens of awards and the respect of her newsroom. On her 10th anniversary, her crew gave her a giant novelty baseball bat—like the one she kept on her desk to scare off pesky Hollywood types. It read:

“To Aggie, Keep Swinging.”

Aggie keeps swinging. Photo courtesy of LAPL.

Reporter Will Fowler said in his autobiography:

“The last thing I remember Aggie saying to her friends who came to celebrate at her retirement party was: ‘Please don’t forget me.’”

She had a bat on her desk and a city full of secrets.

We couldn’t forget her if we tried.

NOTE: If you want to know more about Aggie’s crime reporting, get a copy of the my book, THE FIRST WITH THE LATEST!: AGGIE UNDERWOOD, THE LOS ANGELES HERALD, AND THE SORDID CRIMES OF A CITY.

Film Noir Friday–Saturday Matinee: The Lady Vanishes (1938)

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Welcome!  The lobby of the Deranged L.A. Crimes theater is open. Grab a bucket of popcorn, some Milk Duds and a Coke and find a seat.

Because today’s post (THE LOWER 13th MURDER CASE) is about a crime that occurred on a train, I thought I’d pair it with one of my favorite movies, THE LADY VANISHES. It is a nifty Hitchcock thriller from 1938, starring Margaret Lockwood, Michael Redgrave, and Dame May Whitty. Two of the film’s incidental characters, Charters and Caldicott, who are mad for cricket, were featured in a 1985 BBC television series.

I love this movie — I hope you’ll enjoy it!

TCM says: 

Aboard a train bound for London, Miss Froy, an elderly English governess, makes the acquaintance of young Iris Henderson. When Miss Froy disappears, Iris asks for the other passengers’ assistance in finding the old woman, only to have all contend that Miss Froy was never on the train. 

Hooray for Hollywood!

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Founded in 1921, Christie-Nestor Motion Picture Company, at the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Gower Street, was Hollywood’s first movie studio. David Horsley, the studio’s producer, cranked out three complete motion pictures each week. The hectic schedule scarcely kept up with the public’s demand for the new medium.

Christie Nestor Studio c. 1916. Photo courtesy of Los Angeles Public Library.

Over the next several years, filmmakers from the East Coast recognized the advantages of setting up shop in Hollywood. The Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce praised the region’s natural beauty, enhanced by year-round sunshine. Sunshine made a difference before indoor studios and artificial lighting. Locals provided cheap labor and extras for crowd scenes. A decade later, the sleepy burg of 5,000 residents became a thriving city of 35,000—most of them in the movie business.

With the studios and the busloads of dreamers came the first fan magazines. Magazines such as Moving Picture World and Photoplay played a part in creating the culture of celebrity by showcasing the lives of famous people. People bought movie magazines for the gossip, fashion, and lifestyle—harmless fun. The magazines fueled the dreams of those who longed to be famous. Few made the cut. Filled with photographs showing stars decked-out in diamond jewelry, standing on the grounds of their Beverly Hills mansion, or seated behind the wheel of an exotic car, the magazines gave would-be extortionists, blackmailers, kidnappers, and robbers ideas of their own.

On January 20, 1929, while making the rounds of local studios, Fern Setril met world-renowned director D. W. Griffith. She was thrilled when he told her she was a “girl of an an unusual type of beauty, unspoiled,” and that she had “remarkable features that would film well in motion pictures.” Despite Griffith’s apparent interest, Fern’s movie career did not take off. Not until 1931 did her name become associated with his.

On February 24, 1931, newspapers broke the story that Fern sued Griffith for $601,000 ($12.3M in current USD). The suit specified $500,000 for actual damages, $100,000 for punitive damages and $1,000 for medical treatment. Fern claimed that on June 25, 1930, she met with Griffith in his apartment to discuss her role as Ann Rutledge in his upcoming film, Abraham Lincoln. According to Fern, they did not run lines. Griffith plied her with champagne and raped her.

From his room at the Astor Hotel in New York, Griffith responded to the charges. He called them absurd and without foundation. He said, “I am astounded at the charges made against me. The whole story is untrue. The name Fern Setril means nothing to me. I don’t know anyone by that name.” Griffith vowed to “fight these charges to the limit.”

D. W. Griffith

Fern’s attorneys, Josef Widoff and J. B. Mandel, denied requests from reporters for an interview with their client. Even without her cooperation, reporters dug up enough information from the lawsuit filing to keep the story above the fold on the front page. They learned that before she moved to Hollywood to pursue an acting career, Fern lived in Wasco, California. Most of the time, she worked as an extra, acting in only a few minor bit parts under the surnames Barry or Darry.

Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle. Photo courtesy of the Los Angeles Public Library.

Although Fern filed a civil lawsuit, District Attorney Buron Fitts had no choice but to begin a criminal investigation into the alleged rape. He assigned his chief investigator, Blayney Matthews, to the case. Matthews found out for two weeks following the alleged attack, Mrs. C. E. Taylor and her son, Earl W. Taylor, nursed Fern back to health in their Pasadena home.

Mrs. Taylor told reporters, “It was another Arbuckle case. The girl nearly died here in my apartment.”

Mrs. Taylor said she first met Fern when Earl brought her home. “The girl was penniless,” she commented. “If my son hadn’t brought her in, she would have been left on the street.” Mrs. Taylor refused to name the Pasadena physicians who attended Fern. According to Mrs. Taylor, she and Earl took Fern to a hospital where doctors operated on her for an unspecified condition.

As often happens in breaking news, the rapid twists and turns had reporters struggling to stay on top of the story. This led to conflicting reports. Newspapers hit the street once a day unless they printed a special edition, which meant the news cycle was not in real time. Within a few days of the first report, Griffith suggested to reporters he might be the victim of an extortion plot cooked up by Fern and Earl.

D. A. Buron Fitts declared, “If the facts develop sufficiently to justify a prosecution on the charge of a conspiracy to commit the crime of extortion or attempted extortion, this office will prosecute.”

While Griffith remained in New York, Matthews delved further into Fern’s background. So did reporters. As they did, their coverage shifted in tone. They did not find enough to pillory Fern, but they could build the framework.

Fern Setril

Marguerite and Verona Shearer, Fern’s former Hollywood roommates, told Matthews that Fern filed for a divorce from someone named Frank in August 1930. Fern was married during the time she visited Griffith’s apartment. Fern made it sound like she had visited Griffith only twice before he pounced, but that conflicted with what the Shearer sisters told Matthews. Verona heard Fern talk about a friend named Lou, which was Fern’s name for Griffith.

Marguerite and Verona were a wealth of information. They told Matthews that several times over the summer of 1930, they heard Earl say he “was going to see to it that Fern sued D. W. Griffith to the limit.” Fern’s story unraveled with each new report. One of the most egregious holes in her account was her contention that Griffith offered her the role of Ann Rutledge in Abraham Lincoln. Griffith finished shooting the film in May, with Una Merkel in the role, a month before the alleged attack. The film debuted in New York on August 24.

The discrepancy in her account shocked Fern’s attorneys. They rushed to file an amended complaint, deleting all references to the movie. Another problem for Fern was Earl’s involvement. He contacted local newspapers to “buy this little girl’s story.” Over the telephone, he told reporters, “… this little girl is just out of the convent.”

Earl struggled to convince jaded reporters of Fern’s story. It would have been tougher still if anyone had thought to check newspapers from a few years back. If they had, they would have found out that a love triangle, in which Fern played a pivotal role, was front-page news for a nanosecond in 1926.

In early May 1926, Setril’s photo appeared in the Los Angeles Times and the Illustrated Daily News. Lillian Schmid said her husband, Frank, betrayed her with her best friend, Fern. Lillian told the judge in her divorce case that Fern had lived with her and Frank for five months. After Fern left, Lilian found a letter from her in Frank’s pocket. She confronted him about it. At first, he played dumb. Later, he admitted he loved Fern and was going away with her. Lillian said, “He left me that day.”

Lillian’s attorney, Frank C. Dunham, read aloud an excerpt from Fern’s letter to the court. “By the time this reaches you, I shall be gone. As I know in my heart, it is the only fair thing to do. I just can’t go on living the way I am. There is no use hiding the fact any longer—I love you dearly. I fought hard to hide my love because it is not fair to Lillian. She has been a good wife to you, Frank, and she loves you. I am not the kind of woman who would come between you and Lil, so I am going to leave.”

Lillian got her divorce, and Fern and Frank married in Pasadena on May 15, 1927. Fern got lucky. Reporters never picked up on her earlier peccadillo, but she was not out of the woods. Reporters located the divorce records in the county clerk’s office.

Fern left Frank in August 1929 and returned to her mother’s home in Wasco. Frank followed her there and, at gunpoint, forced her to return to Los Angeles with him. In the divorce, she charged Frank with cruelty and won an interlocutory decree on October 16, 1930. That was not the end of her marital woes. Frank appeared in court to have the decree set aside. He accused Fern of misconduct with one “John Doe.” Frank said Doe gave Fern money and expensive gifts. He also said she bragged to her friends about being in love with Doe. Frank failed to appear on January 7, 1931. Fern won her decree by default.

Fern replaced her troublesome husband with a problematic boyfriend, Earl Taylor. In August 1928, Judge Fletcher Bowron (future mayor of Los Angeles) sentenced Taylor to San Quentin for embezzlement. Taylor embezzled two $5,000 promissory notes belonging to Lynn. C. Booze. Besides swindling Booze, he stole from several Compton and Long Beach businessmen. Taylor applied for probation, but the judge denied it. After a year in San Quentin, they paroled him on October 29, 1929—Black Tuesday, the day the stock market crashed and plunged the U.S. into a decade-long depression.

Fern and Taylor likely met when he worked at one of the local movie studios following his parole. Did Fern meet Griffith in 1929? Maybe, but there is a chance she and Taylor fabricated the story. Blayney Matthews began his investigation, and the couple’s scheme unraveled. At the end of February, he questioned Fern and Taylor. On the advice of her attorney, Jerry Giesler, Fern declined to make a statement. Taylor should have followed Fern’s lead. Instead, he spoke at length and dug himself a deep hole. Matthews determined Taylor was the “mastermind” behind the extortion plot.

A movie technical assistant, Frank Leyva, told Matthews that Fern and Taylor had tried to extort him, too. In October 1930, Fern threatened to charge him with rape if he didn’t pay. He went to the police instead.

While Matthews questioned Taylor, James Lewis, assistant State parole officer, identified Taylor as the man sentenced to San Quentin in August 1928. Lewis said, “Taylor has been on the borderline of trouble several times since he was paroled. I warned him once before not to be too friendly with Mrs. Setril. That was before she was divorced from her husband, who complained to me of Taylor’s attentions to his wife.”

Lewis had news for Taylor. His parole would not expire until August 18, 1931. A violation would return him to prison. Fitts held Taylor in technical custody until they could settle the Griffith case. Fern sued Griffith, but never had him served. The case fizzled. So, too, did the criminal investigation into the alleged sexual assault.

In custody, the strain got to Taylor, who threatened to commit suicide. “If they don’t do something to break this strain pretty soon, I’ll jump out of a window.” Fern pleaded with him to hang on, “for my sake.” Taylor fought in vain. They returned him to prison. Fern broke her vow to wait. In the summer of 1932, she announced her imminent marriage to a man she did not name. No record of the marriage appeared in local newspapers. Fern disappeared.

Following his parole, Earl Taylor re-invented himself as a Hollywood writer’s agent. In 1935, two women accused him of fraud. A jury acquitted him.

In June 1939, under the sensational headline, L.A. Gunman Runs Amok in Hotel, the Daily News reported that a retired furrier, Frank Setril, took potshots at lights and windows at the Vanderbilt Hotel. Frank locked himself in his third-floor room. Police flushed him out with tear gas. No one could explain his behavior.

D. W. Griffith’s first full talking film, Abraham Lincoln, fizzled at the box-office. He followed it up in 1931 with The Struggle, which also failed.

He never made another movie.

NOTE: I wrote about Fern Setril in my book, Of Mobsters and Movie Stars: The Bloody Golden Age of Hollywood, Wild Blue Press, 2024.

Hero or Villain? The Strange Life of Olney Le Blanc–Conclusion

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One thing I love about researching true crime is how a story can change direction. Just when I think I have someone figured out, they do something that seems out of character, and it wipes the smug expression off my face. That happened with Olney Le Blanc. 

Olney’s courage impressed me when I discovered his story in newspaper coverage from 1935. He saved his three-year-old son, Bernard, from a man who killed the boy’s puppy and likely had something awful planned for the child.

Curious about where Olney’s life would take him, I continued to search. He appeared in minor news stories about his career as a dancer, and as a teacher. By 1940, he was the recreation leader at McKinley Home for Boys in Van Nuys; a job for which he was well-suited. He lived at the home without his wife or son. Because I could not find documentation, I believe they may have separated or divorced.

I expected Olney to continue his career as a dance teacher. Maybe I’d find he and Annette had divorced. The truth caught me off-guard.

Olney was a killer.

On August 29, 1942, a call summoned Los Angeles County Sheriff’s deputies to the Carmelitos housing project, where someone had stabbed a woman. They arrived at the Carmelitos Housing Project, at the residence of June Dyer, 22-year-old mother of three.

Mildred Davis, left, and Muriel Robbins, right, of the tenant selection staff of the County Housing Authority, look over the Carmelitos low-rent housing project, located in North Long Beach. The project was the first of its kind opened in Southern California. Photo dated: October 23, 1940, courtesy of LAPL.

Ten blocks away from the scene of the murder, police found a man unconscious in a car outside a school. Someone also stabbed him. One officer made a tourniquet from the leather thong of his nightstick and stopped blood spurting from a gashed arm. They identified him as Olney Le Blanc, and booked him into the police hospital ward on suspicion of murder.

In one of his pockets they found a letter, written by June.

Dear Donald: This is a written confession of an unforgivable error I made—not in the doing, but because I kept the truth from you. Dan is not your son. You know his father. Hold it not against Danny and love him as you always have if you can.

Donald, I have deceived you many times since the beginning, even telling you I loved you. I lied.

I could never find real happiness with a lie in my heart. Mr. Leblanc has been cheated of a glorified happiness because of me. I’m doing to try to make him happy, as I know he can make me happy and be as grand a father to the boys as anyone in the world. We will work together, something you and I could never get started.

Your wife, June

Why did Olney have June’s letter in his possession?

Working for hours, Sheriff’s deputies Ed Carroll, Emmett Love and H. K. MacVine pieced together the events leading up to the murder.

A witness, 16-year-old Walter Jensen, said he saw June standing beside a car outside of her home, talking to four friends. Another car drove up, its driver called to her, and she left to talk to him.

Walter said, “They seemed to be arguing. Then he grabbed her and threw her to the ground. Walter ran to June’s aid, but the man knocked him down. Her friends carried June into her house. Her husband, Don, arrived home in time to see June die.

The U.S. was at war, and hundreds of thousands of people moved to Los Angeles for war work at shipyards and factories. June, her husband Donald, and Olney worked at Vultee, a defense plant. June and Olney worked a swing shift, and they got to know each other. When she found out he was a woodworker, she asked if he would give her instruction. Olney agreed. 

After her death, newspapers suggested June and Olney were having an affair, and called the case California’s first swing-shift murder. Staggered working hours sometimes made it difficult for spouses not to stray.

Donald took umbrage with newspapers that suggested June had broken her marriage vows. He said Olney became obsessed with June. In fact, six weeks before the murder, Olney kidnapped June, drove her to the Mojave Desert, stabbed her in the side and forced her to write a letter to Don, confessing infidelity.

Sheriff’s records proved the truth of Don’s statement. Deputies took Olney into custody and booked on suspicion of assault with a deadly weapon following the kidnapping. June and Don refused to press charges.

At the time of the kidnapping, Olney told officers, “I was so madly in love with her I didn’t know what I was doing.”

The letter found on Olney following his attempted suicide was the letter he had forced June to write.

Olney appeared for his preliminary hearing on September 15th. The judge remanded him to the County Jail without bail, pending trial, on a charge of murder.

As deputies led a shackled Olney from the courtroom, Don lunged at him, screaming, “I hope you die in a thousand hells—you didn’t have the guts to kill yourself, but you could kill June.” A bailiff shoved Don aside before he could get his hands on Olney.

In October, Olney entered a plea of not guilty by reason of insanity. The court appointed three alienists to examine Olney, and set trial for November 6 before Superior Judge Charles W. Fricke.

I’ve written about Fricke before. He was a no-nonsense jurist; some even called him a “hanging judge.” Olney was in for a rough ride.

In a surprise move, under an agreement with the D.A.’s office, Olney’s not guilty plea would stand. No witnesses would be called before Judge Fricke, who would use a transcript of the preliminary hearing and to have the court consider it as the evidence in determining Olney’s guilt or innocence, and the punishment if any.

On November 23rd, Judge Fricke found Olney guilty of first-degree murder, and sentenced him to life imprisonment.

Why did Olney’s life unravel? When I first found his story, it seemed he would lead a happy and productive life. How did he go from saving his son from a kidnapper to murdering June with a German sword?

I accept I will never know.

Hero or Villain? The Strange Life of Olney Le Blanc

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While combing old newspapers in search of a tale for a Deranged L.A. Crimes post, I found the curious story of Olney Le Blanc.

On January 28, 1935, a picture of him with his son, Bernard, ran in the Los Angeles Times alongside a headline about a suspected kidnapping and arrest.

The day before the article appeared, 3-year-old Bernard Le Blanc was playing with his two-month-old puppy in his backyard. Moments later, a neighbor, John Corbett, saw Bernard walking down the alley hand in hand with a stranger who had a burlap sack thrown over his shoulder.

Alarmed, Corbett dashed over to Olney’s home and told him what he had witnessed. Olney, Corbett, and a group of neighbors rallied. They chased the man, and Olney caught him. A professional dancer, Olney was in prime physical condition and apprehended the stranger with ease. A fistfight broke out after the vendor resisted. The man was no match for a father in defense of his son. The neighbors held him for police. In the sack they found Bernard’s puppy, dead.

The stranger identified himself as 40-year-old Jack Light, a fruit vendor who lived at 401 1/2 North Main Street. He told police he was drinking before he saw Bernard and his puppy. Light insisted he only wanted to take Bernard to a local café for a bottle of milk, and to a store to buy food for the puppy. He claimed Bernard put the dog, still alive, in the burlap sack and denied kicking it to death. He said when Olney knocked him down, he must have fallen on the sack and crushed the dog’s head. Witnesses contradicted Light’s version.

Detectives Brown and Filkas arrested Light for attempted kidnapping.

In February, Jack Light, acting as his own attorney, took the stand on his own behalf. Charged with child stealing, he told Municipal Judge Morgan Gaibreth the same story he had told police. The judge set Light’s bail at $5000.

On March 20, 1935, Judge Fletcher Bowron found Light guilty of child stealing. Light requested probation. Judge Bowron sentenced him to ninety days in the County Jail, ten years’ probation, and fined him $25.

There is no way to know for sure what Light planned to do with Bernard. That he kicked the puppy to death leads me to believe he was going to harm Bernard, too. Olney’s swift action saved his son from an uncertain fate

Olney’s courage impressed me. I wanted to know if he did anything else worthy of newspaper coverage. I found a few stories about Olney and his dance career. He must have been talented to stay employed during the Depression.

By October 1936, Olney taught dance at the Torrance Recreation Department. The Get-Together Club was part of a WPA (Works Progress Administration) effort. He taught classes from 3:30 to 5:30 p.m., each weekday.

Olney’s dance partner, Coral King, threw a birthday party for him in August 1939 at the Redwood Ranch, home of Lita Houghton in Van Nuys. The party was formal dress, with a live band. Among those in attendance was Coral’s dance class, the Friday Nighters.

The 1940 Federal Census shows Olney as the recreation leader at the McKinley Home for Boys at 13840 Riverside Drive in Van Nuys (now Sherman Oaks). He stated he was married, but his living alone at the home suggests a separation from his wife.

The McKinley Home (named after President McKinley), housed 150-250 boys. In the early 1960s, the home moved to San Dimas and still operates today. They leveled the Van Nuys location and built a mall in its place.

Other than a possible crack in his marriage, Olney appeared to be doing well.

Curious, I searched for further information.

I was unprepared for what I found.

NEXT TIME: Olney’s life takes a turn to the dark side.