Dreamers and Deceivers

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  Dedication

  To Brent Ashworth, Harlan Crowe, and David Barton—three of the greatest Americans I know. These men have dedicated their lives to collecting and preserving our history so that future generations can hold the real story of America in their hands.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  1. Grover Cleveland: The Mysterious Case of the Disappearing President

  2. “I Did Not Kill Armstrong”: The War of Wills in the Early Days of Radio

  3. Woodrow Wilson: A Masterful Stroke of Deception

  4. Streets of Gold: Charles Ponzi and the American Scheme

  5. He Loved Lucy: The Tragic Genius of Desi Arnaz, the Inventor of the Rerun

  6. The Muckraker: How a Lost Letter Revealed Upton Sinclair’s Deception

  7. Alan Turing: How the Father of the Computer Saved the World for Democracy

  8. The Spy Who Turned to a Pumpkin: Alger Hiss and the Liberal Establishment That Defended a Traitor

  9. The City of Tomorrow: Walt Disney’s Last and Lost Dream

  10. “Make It Great, John”: How Steve Jobs and John Lasseter Changed History at Pixar

  Appendix: Letter from Upton Sinclair

  About Glenn Beck

  About the Writing of This Book

  Author’s Note

  It’s easy to look back at our history and picture it as a simple collection of events: a war, a constitution, an election, another war, and so on. But history isn’t really about events—those are just labels we give to things. It’s the people who really matter.

  People can spend their time working for good or evil. They can be heroes or villains. They can choose to fight for love and courage and truth, or they can fight for their own egos and agendas.

  Sometimes, even in retrospect, it’s not that easy to figure out who a person really was. Steve Jobs, for example, features prominently in this book as a dreamer, but he was certainly not without his flaws. And, as we now know from accounts published after his death, Jobs was not always a good man. He certainly wasn’t always a fair one. According to Walter Isaacson’s book Steve Jobs, Jobs once said some pretty nasty things about me and even tried to get me fired from Fox News.

  But when I look back at Steve Jobs’s life, I see a man who tried his best and whose contributions will leave a lasting mark on the world. Perhaps, in the end, the lesson is that it’s as important to say “I tried” as it is to say “I succeeded.”

  My admiration for Steve Jobs’s contributions demonstrates one of the best things about America: We live in a country where agreeing with someone and admiring them don’t have to be mutually exclusive. There are plenty of people who have done things I admire even though I don’t agree with some of their actions or beliefs.

  Henry Ford is a good example. He was a horrible anti-Semite, a man who blamed the Jews for almost every evil in the world. In fact, Ford is the only American mentioned in Hitler’s Mein Kampf. But Henry Ford was also a genius when it came to perfecting the automobile assembly line—an innovation (originally conceived by Ransom Olds) that changed the world.

  I don’t have to agree with someone, or even like them, to be able to recognize their achievements. In fact, instituting some kind of likability litmus test leads us down a pretty dangerous path toward a modern version of McCarthyism. I don’t like what you stand for so I use my power to try to take you down. It’s something that is seriously being proposed by many on the Left, and even some on the Right—and it’s got to stop.

  What if instead we all agreed to no more blacklists. No more blind loyalty oaths. No more trying to take people down or get them fired simply because we disagree with them.

  Steve Jobs talked a lot about his belief that the axis in America is no longer “liberal and conservative,” but “constructive and destructive.” I could not agree more. But I think where we disagree is in identifying who gets to decide which category a person falls into. Thomas Edison was not a good guy—but would you prefer he had been blacklisted and put out of business before he ever got started? Would you give up everything he created simply because you didn’t like something about his personality or his political views?

  I, for one, am glad Steve Jobs lived and created what he did. He changed our world for the better. I would never sacrifice that because he and I didn’t agree on politics.

  That same rule applies to many of the people we selected for this book. I’m sure there are plenty of “deceivers” who were actually very nice and generous people. The reverse is also true: I have no doubt that some of the “dreamers” we feature were selfish or malicious. The goal of this book is not to generically categorize someone’s entire life; it’s only to look at an often narrow slice of their accomplishments.

  As with the previous book in this series (Miracles and Massacres), I attempted to adhere to a few guiding principles when deciding which people to include. I tried to select:

  1. People whose names are mostly familiar but who are either misunderstood or who have a side to their lives that is not well known;

  2. People with stories that have messages or lessons with clear relevance to today;

  3. People who represent both sides of our past—the selfless and the selfish; the dreamers and the deceivers.

  There is a great mix of people with stories that I think will really surprise you. From incredible deceptions perpetrated by sitting presidents, to the world-changing genius of people like Desi Arnaz, Alan Turing, Walt Disney, and, yes, Steve Jobs.

  Finally, just as with Miracles and Massacres, these stories have been written in a style that puts you right next to the characters. It’s my hope that you’ll feel like you’re reading a novel more than a history book because we learn best when we engage with stories, not when we try to memorize meaningless details.

  Once you’ve finished each story, I urge you to read the section “About the Writing of This Book,” as it will give you a good sense for the writing process and will explain what we took from the historical record and what we imagined or dramatized for the sake of crafting a compelling story.

  Laos Deo,

  Dallas, Texas

  2014

  1

  Grover Cleveland: The Mysterious Case of the Disappearing President

  Albany, New York

  July 21, 1884

  Governor Grover Cleveland stared in disbelief at the front page of the Buffalo Telegraph. Just ten days earlier he had received the Democratic Party’s nomination for president, and given his reputation for unwavering honesty, he knew that he had a real chance to win. His Republican opponent, the notoriously corrupt James G. Blaine—a man who would soon become known as “Blaine, Blaine, James G. Blaine, the Continental liar from the state of Maine!”—was vulnerable. If Cleveland managed to parlay his sterling reputation into a victory in November, he would be the first Democrat elected since before the Civil War.

  But now, as Cleveland stared in disgust at the newspaper sitting on his desk, victory looked a lot less likely. A TERRIBLE TALE, screamed the morning’s headline. A DARK CHAPTER IN A PUBLIC MAN’S HISTORY.

  The Telegraph’s article told the story of Maria Halpin, a widow in Cleveland’s hometown of Buffalo, who had a child named Oscar Folsom Cleveland.

  Cleveland, a bachelor, had never acknowledged that his former lover’s child was his. After all, several of his drinking bu
ddies had also shared Maria’s bed—could he really be sure of his paternity? But those friends were all married, so Cleveland had agreed to give the child his last name and his financial support. When the boy was sent to an orphanage after Maria’s excessive drinking and deteriorating emotional state led to her stay in a mental institution, Cleveland had dutifully paid the orphanage bill of five dollars a week.

  Now, in the midst of Cleveland’s presidential campaign, the nine-year-old child’s very existence threatened to derail his White House hopes—unless he could find a way to turn this crisis into an opportunity.

  As Cleveland read through the article, much of which was exaggerated and sensationalized, the governor began to formulate a strategy. The American people, he reasoned, would forgive a sexual indiscretion. In fact, if he was completely honest about something so embarrassing—something so many men lied about almost out of habit—voters might actually reward him. His candor would reinforce the trustworthiness that had been his calling card ever since he’d been elected to replace Buffalo’s corrupt mayor in 1881 and New York’s corrupt governor in 1882. Now, in a meteoric rise to national prominence, that same forthrightness would save his nomination for president of the United States.

  “Write this down, and send it to all my friends in Buffalo,” Cleveland ordered his press secretary and close confidant, Daniel Lamont. “I have a simple message for anyone who is asking anything about Maria Halpin.” His voice now boomed with confidence and authority. “Whatever you do . . . tell the truth!”

  • • •

  Cleveland’s strategy worked perfectly. By the narrowest of margins, and, in large part thanks to the trust inspired by his response to the Maria Halpin scandal, the governor of New York was elected president of the United States of America. Joseph Pulitzer, of the New York World, spoke for millions when he explained the four reasons he supported Grover Cleveland: “1. He is an honest man; 2. He is an honest man; 3. He is an honest man; 4. He is an honest man.”

  Nine Years Later

  From Washington, D.C., to New York City

  July 1, 1893

  The president grimaced as he climbed into the presidential carriage for the trip down Pennsylvania Avenue to the Baltimore & Potomac train station. It took quite an effort for the six-foot, one-inch, three-hundred-pound chief executive to get from the ground to his seat. Even though Grover Cleveland was more than strong enough, the fifty-six-year-old didn’t enjoy physical exertion. He’d once told Daniel Lamont, who was now serving as secretary of war, that even walking was an annoyance to be avoided whenever possible.

  Lamont was at Cleveland’s side for the ride to the train station, just as he had been for the better part of the last decade. The president thought of his friend, who was fourteen years younger, as the son he’d never had. Lamont even looked in some ways like a slightly thinner and balder version of Cleveland, right down to the bushy walrus mustache they both sported. Unfailingly loyal, Lamont and Cleveland shared an affinity for whiskey, cigars, hunting, and fishing.

  Lamont was by Cleveland’s side when he won the presidential election in 1884, and he was there when Cleveland lost the White House in 1888, despite having won the popular vote. Four years later, Lamont reprised his role as press secretary in Cleveland’s bid to reclaim the presidency. They celebrated together in 1892 when Cleveland defeated Benjamin Harrison by a landslide.

  In his second term Cleveland promoted his friend to secretary of war, but the president continued to rely on Lamont’s judgment and counsel in all critical matters of state. First among those matters was the “money question.”

  The Silver Purchase Act of 1890 required the United States Treasury to purchase 4.5 million ounces of silver each month and to print large amounts of paper currency that could be redeemed for that silver. The consequence was inflation—wild, catastrophic, panic-inducing inflation. By Cleveland’s inauguration in March, the United States was in the midst of the worst economic recession in its history: the aptly labeled Panic of 1893.

  Cleveland and Lamont arrived at the train station and boarded a special car prepared for them by the railroad’s owner. The president placed a supremely high value on discretion. Once aboard, his first priority was to order a cigar and a whiskey. His second order of business was to pull down the window shades. A private man even under ordinary circumstances, Cleveland knew the purpose of this trip was anything but ordinary. The press and public were on a “need to know” basis, and as far as he was concerned, there was nothing about this journey that any of them needed to know.

  Cleveland had frequently received good press, especially as it related to his anticorruption efforts as mayor, governor, and president, yet he still despised reporters. As the train left the station, he recalled all the times journalists had poked their noses in where they didn’t belong, beginning with their coverage of the Maria Halpin affair.

  At times, Cleveland’s rage at reporters turned to fits of anger. At other times, he found an outlet for his frustration by writing blistering letters to newspaper editors. To one publication, he wrote that “the falsehoods daily spread before the people in our newspapers are insults to the American love for decency and fair play of which we boast.” To another, he blasted “keyhole correspondents” for using “the enormous power of the modern newspaper to perpetuate and disseminate a colossal impertinence.”

  The whiskey soon arrived, as did the cigar. With all the shades pulled down, Cleveland was able to relax for the first time since he’d hoisted himself into the presidential carriage. Only after he and Lamont were safely away from the Washington, D.C., area did Cleveland raise the shades to enjoy the views as the New York Express chugged northward.

  The sights outside the president’s window, however, were not always pleasing to his eye. Occasionally the train would pass by shantytowns filled with jobless vagabonds and homeless families making the most of what tin, cardboard, and spare lumber they could find to create shelter.

  The train was moving fast, but he could still see the misery in the sunken eyes of the unfortunate inhabitants. Cleveland knew that unemployment was at an all-time high, that stocks were anemic, that banks, railroads, and factories were failing, that farm foreclosures were rampant, and that all the wrong rates were rising: interest rates, unemployment rates, and, if the papers were to be believed, suicide rates as well. Even so, Cleveland was not prepared for the wretched, impoverished conditions he saw from his window. The shantytowns looked like refugee camps in some third-world, war-ravaged country.

  The tragic sights of suffering steeled the president’s resolve to repeal the Silver Purchase Act. Just that morning, before surreptitiously leaving the capital, he had called for a special session of Congress to consider repealing the law he blamed for the country’s woes. He was sure he could persuade them to eliminate the act. He was coming off a landslide election and the political momentum was squarely on his side. Only public disclosure of the purpose of the trip he was now on could stop him.

  Cleveland arrived in Jersey City, New Jersey, and boarded a ferry for Manhattan. His destination was a luxurious yacht anchored in the East River, which would then sail him to his vacation home in Massachusetts, on Buzzards Bay, off Cape Cod. Before he could get there, however, he had to deal with a handful of reporters who had discovered that the president was no longer at the White House. They were curious to know why he had left Washington on the eve of debate over the Silver Purchase Act.

  “I have nothing to say for publication, except that I am going to Buzzards Bay for a rest.”

  New York City

  July 1, 1893

  Early Evening

  Among the reporters who had been on the ferry with Grover Cleveland was Elisha Jay Edwards, known to readers of his almost daily column by his one-word penname: Holland.

  With a thick, light brown mustache that did little to obscure his handsome, angular face, Edwards was among the most diligent and respected journalists in the nation. A skilled researcher and writer, he had graduated
from Yale Law School in 1873 and then stayed in New Haven to practice law. Those plans changed when he purchased an interest in New Haven’s Elm City Press. Before long, his photographic memory, penchant for dogged investigations, and ability to write quickly, clearly, and elegantly made him the best reporter in that Connecticut city.

  The early 1870s were the beginning of a drastic, two-decade media expansion. New printing technologies and a rise in literacy were the driving forces behind a threefold increase in newspaper sales. During that era, no publisher was as respected and feared as the New York Sun’s Charles Dana. It was Dana who plucked the talented Edwards out of obscurity and brought him from New Haven to New York in 1879.

  After ten years of twelve-hour days with Dana, Edwards took a job as the New York correspondent for the Philadelphia Press. It was there that “Holland” became one of the most read syndicated columnists in the country.

  Six days a week, in newsrooms across the nation, reporters would begin their day by asking the same question: “What does Holland say today?”

  As the evening sun set outside his window in the Schermerhorn Building on Manhattan’s Lower East Side, Edwards wrote out the next day’s column in longhand. It included a bit of gossip about Interior Secretary Hoke Smith, “the only member of the cabinet who has dared to assert himself in the presence of the president,” and a little news about “a delegation of starving miners” who “may be sent to Washington from Colorado and Montana demanding from President Cleveland not bread but silver, which is the same to them.” Finally, near the end of the column, was a note about how President Cleveland and his friend Elias Benedict were planning to spend much of July together at their vacation homes on Buzzards Bay. “Mr. Benedict says that Mr. Cleveland is as impatient for the sea bass fishing and as hungry for a day’s sport trolling for bluefish as a schoolboy is for the first day of his vacation.”