Rags & Riches

When the Illinois legislature, two years ago, voted $24,000 for a guy named Joe, everybody around Chicago felt pretty good. Joe's last name was Majczek. Not all Chicagoans knew how to pronounce it (it rhymes with paycheck), but they all knew his story. Joe had had a tough time. He had spent twelve years in prison for a murder which he had not committed. His mother had scrubbed floors to get the money to help clear him. When he was pardoned (TIME, Aug. 27, 1945), curly-haired, good-looking Joe Majczek became the hero of every Pole in town.

No one had been more concerned about Joe's case than Swedish-born Ragnar Nelson, a dapper, bow-tied Republican assemblyman who sold insurance on the side. "Rags" Nelson sponsored Joe's bill in the legislature, helped push it through both houses.

Call Northside 777. Joe was grateful, but a little bewildered. His wife had divorced him (with his consent) and remarried while he was in prison, and he often went to see her and his 14-year-old son. He worked in various jobs as a sales correspondent, collector and bookkeeper. A movie company paid him a meager $1,000 to make his story into a picture, Call Northside 777 (see CINEMA) .

After getting his big check from the state, Joe paid off the mortgage on his mother's house, set aside $4,000 for his son's education, saved most of the rest. He bought his mother a fur coat, paid for two operations she needed. Once in a while, his mother still worked as a scrubwoman. "It's not the money," she explained in her broken English. "I'm just lonesome for my friends." At 39, Joe was beginning to grey at the temples. He gradually lost some of his shyness, cracked an occasional joke.

A Little Push. But last week Joe was suddenly back in the news. Sun & Times Reporter James McGuire (who had helped clear Joe back in 1945) had got a hot tip. The tip: Joe had turned over $5,000 of the $24,000 to Rags Nelson.

Newsman McGuire wormed a confirmation out of Joe. According to Joe, Nelson had taken him to the wake of a prominent political writer. There he had introduced him to many legislators. All of them, said Joe, told him that if it were not for Rags, he wouldn't be getting that big check.

On the way home, Nelson and Joe stopped in a small, dingy bar. As they sipped their drinks, said Joe, Nelson remarked casually: "You know this is going to cost you $5,000." Joe was dumbfounded. Said Nelson: "It's worth the money. You know I did a lot of work for you. I had to push a little here, and push a little there, and make a few promises." Twelve years in jail had taught Joe the habit of not asking questions. He said O.K.

A Brown Envelope. When Joe got the check, he said, Nelson picked him up in his Packard and dropped him at the bank. Joe drew out the money, met Nelson in the Hotel La Salle lobby. They had a drink, then got into Nelson's car. Joe said that Nelson then took a brown envelope out of his pocket and told him to put the money in it. A few days later Nelson summoned Joe to pose with Governor Dwight Green for newsreel pictures. Said Joe: "I didn't shave and didn't wear a necktie to the Governor's office. That was my way of showing my disgust."

Last week, a grand jury listened to Joe's story and invited Rags Nelson to tell his. Rags was indignant, then thought better of it. He told newsmen that he had attended the wake with Joe, had a drink with him at the La Salle, but denied all knowledge of the $5,000.

This week the grand jury washed its hands of the matter. The acting state's attorney explained that it had found the stories too conflicting to justify a criminal charge. Joe, who had already learned about the law, had nothing more to say.

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