Friendship

Often hailed as a symbol of democracy at work, Manhattan's Borough President Hulan Jack is a better symbol of big-city Democratic politics at work. West Indies-born Jack rose from janitor to vice president of a paperbox company, tied his political ambitions to Tammany Hall and the rising power of Manhattan's 400,000 Negroes. Elected to the state assembly seven times, Jack was tapped by Tammany in 1953 for the borough presidency, was elected, and re-elected four years later. As the highest paid ($25,000) Negro municipal officeholder in the U.S., he was the pride of Harlem--until he got clumsily entangled with a favor-seeking friend and was forced to suspend himself.

Friends to the Fore. The case, as it unfolded in court, seemed remarkably simple. By Jack's own admission to the county grand jury, he had allowed longtime Crony Sidney J. Ungar, a real estate operator seeking city approval of a $30 million slum-clearance scheme, to pick up a $4,400 tab for the 1958 remodeling of Jack's Harlem apartment. Jack also admitted that he had lied to the district attorney by saying that his wife paid for the job out of her $100-a-week "table money"--before finally settling on the explanation that Ungar had loaned the money without note or collateral. Indicted on charges of violating the city charter and of conspiracy, Jack declined to take the stand at the trial. But Operator Ungar, granted immunity from selfincrimination, testified that Jack had suggested the table-money story. And ex-Housing Czar Robert Moses repeated what he told the grand jury: that he had approved Ungar's slum-clearance project after learning that Borough President Jack was "obligated" to him.

But logic took a back seat as Jack's friends came forward. Joe Louis, a well-wisher at Teamster Boss Jimmy Hoffa's bribery trial in 1957, turned up amid popping flashbulbs to say a showy hello. Mayor Robert F. Wagner, appearing under subpoena, marched to the defense table, pumped Jack's hand and lauded Jack as "a conscientious public servant." His Honor was echoed by such Democratic bigwigs as Comptroller Lawrence E. Gerosa, Brooklyn Borough President John Cashmore, City Council President Abe Stark and Queens Borough President John T. Clancy, who boomed "Hi, kid," as he grabbed Jack's hand.

Pleas of Sympathy. Last week the jury of one Negro and eleven whites heard final characterizations of the chunky borough president by the defense ("a babe in the woods") and the prosecution ("plain cupidity"), and a lucid charge by Judge Joseph A. Sarafite. After filing into the jury room, they split wide open. Without once mentioning Jack's race (a sort of racism in reverse peculiar to hypersensitive Manhattan), they wrangled bitterly for almost 19 hours, finally deadlocked on all charges. "It was chaos," said one weary juror. "All we heard were pleas of sympathy for Jack." One of four pro-Jack jurors assured Jack's wife: "I fought like a tiger for him." Said the foreman and only Negro: "I feel that a hung jury is a vindication for Jack."

Much as he wanted to agree, Jack decided at week's end to stay suspended, at least temporarily. District Attorney Frank Hogan, frankly dismayed at the jury's destruction of the solidly built case, said another trial could not be scheduled until the fall, then cheerfully tossed the decision on what to do with Jack to Republican Governor Nelson Rockefeller, the only official with power to remove a borough president.

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