Justice for All (24 page)

Warren's handling of the Radin nomination was not his finest hour, and his actions suggest more than met the eye. As Warren had to know, the ethics charges against Radin were thin, and his other credentials were outstanding. Warren's closest friends did not believe that Warren would have rejected him because of his politics. “It surely wasn't Radin's so-called liberal views or espousal of liberal causes,” Warren Olney said later. “Warren wouldn't have turned him down for that.”
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After the commission's rejection of Radin, Warren stonewalled all efforts to inquire about it. One group of liberal activists complained, arguing that the effect of the decision—as well as the secret manner in which it was reached—was to “not only undermine trust in the selective process provided by the Constitution, but to deprive the people of this state of the services of an outstanding and courageous public servant.”
²⁰
Warren was unmoved. The Radin vote stood.

Warren's silence was telling. He did not like to admit error, and when he made a mistake, his response often took on a sullen stubbornness, his true feelings revealed only to a few close friends and indirectly even to them. A few months after the commission vote, Warren had lunch with U.C. Berkeley President Robert Gordon Sproul, a friend and supporter of long standing, a man Warren could trust. In language so blunt that Sproul filed it away, Warren chastised Sproul for defending Radin and for making him a member of the Berkeley law school faculty. It was, Sproul recorded, “a vigorous denunciation of Professor Radin, which very evidently contained a good deal of personal animus.” Intemperately, Warren even accused Sproul of “glorifying” Radin by denying publicly that he was a Communist.
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A hint of the source of Warren's “personal animus” comes through in the Sproul memo, as Warren recounted that a friend had told him that Radin believed the
Point Lobos
defendants were “framed.” Radin had denied that publicly, but Warren appears not to have believed him. If so, that would suggest to Warren that Radin was a radical, for believing that the defendants were framed, and a liar, for denying it. And, most important, an enemy, for believing that Warren himself had done the framing.

With that, Warren hunkered down. He omitted all mention of the controversy in his memoirs—the only reference to the incident was added by editors after his death.
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Warren's silence makes his actions unexplained, but the most logical inference is that Warren concluded that Radin was a radical and punished him for it. When others tried to disabuse Warren of that view, he refused and then blotted out the episode from his own history.

A seething Olson resolved to get even. And he did so by striking at Warren's sore point, the
Point Lobos
prosecution. Warren already knew that Olson might attempt to reopen the
Point Lobos
case. The wife of George Alberts had written to Warren to say she was worried that Olson might agree to let her husband's murderers stand for pardon or parole.
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Warren promptly replied, telling her that “nothing could be more unjust” than to free those killers. “I want you to know,” Warren added portentously, “that at the proper time I will make it definitely known to the public that I am unalterably opposed to either the parole or the pardon of these men. To release them at this time for the horrible crime they committed would simply be an invitation to others so inclined to deprive other wives of their husbands and children of their fathers.”
²⁴

In early 1940, the Advisory Pardon Board met to consider whether to recommend pardons for the three men, and Lieutenant Governor Ellis Patterson read a statement proclaiming his belief that “King, Ramsay and Conner were innocent and that justice had been miscarried.” Warren, already angry that the meeting room had been changed to allow more supporters of the defendants to be present, curtly replied, “There was no question as to the guilt of any of the three men.” Warren's side prevailed on a 4-1 vote, with only Patterson recommending pardons.
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That settled the matter for the moment, but after Warren rejected the Radin nomination, Olson ventured into
Point Lobos
again. Without consulting Warren, Olson visited the
Point Lobos
defendants at San Quentin in October 1940, an act so sure to provoke Warren's anger that it unquestionably was done with that in mind. At a news conference on October 15, the governor revealed his visit and told reporters that the men he'd met did not strike him as murderers. Olson said he was considering pardons or parole for the three men. (Wallace, also convicted of the murder, was not defended by labor, which resented his testimony against his codefendants, along with his admission of having actually participated in Alberts's beating. California law also barred Olson from pardoning Wallace, because he had a prior conviction. In any event, Olson appears never to have contemplated freeing Wallace.) In a real sense, that announcement cost Culbert Olson his political future, as it roused Warren from private anger to public rage.

Warren called the governor's comments “shocking” and responded, “Every good citizen of California should resent it. Everyone who disbelieves in assassination should protest it. Everyone who is loyal to our country in its present crisis should fight to prevent it.”
²⁶
Evidence of Warren's suppressed anger erupted elsewhere in the same statement. “Heretofore, I have never said one word against the Governor or any of his official acts,” Warren said, implying that he had had plenty to say but had chosen not to, “but silence on my part in this matter would be cowardice.”

The testy exchange between Olson and Warren was extended in letters between the two men over the next several days, as they goaded each other and then shared their correspondence with the press. On the day after Warren's statement was released, Olson wrote to the attorney general, promising to give the case a thorough review and snidely adding, “I hope that your own convictions regarding the guilt of these men in connection with the murder of Mr. Alberts are based upon material, tangible and convincing evidence and not upon the prejudice which seems to be exhibited in this statement of yours.” Olson chastised Warren for pointing out that he had not been consulted prior to Olson's remarks, and then closed by deploring “this matter of newspaper controversy between a Governor and an Attorney General.” “My decision,” Olson wrote, “will finally be reached regardless of whom it pleases.”
²⁷

As the combative tone of his letter makes clear, by this point Olson had concluded that Warren was an implacable rival, and that mollifying him was impossible and arguably counterproductive. Whether or not that was true at the moment, the public exchange of statements made it so from then on—a striking example of the self-fulfilling quality of their rivalry. Warren responded to Olson's letter with one of his own, agreeing that conflict between top political leaders was distasteful but continuing it nonetheless. Olson's letter, Warren said, “does not cause me to change one word of my statement to the effect that it was shocking to me and to everyone who believes in law enforcement.”
²⁸

Warren ended that letter with a pledge to discuss the matter with the governor despite their differences. Months went by without action by the governor. Then, on November 27, 1941, the state parole board, whose members were appointed by Olson, voted to release the three men.
²⁹
Warren excoriated Olson in language that precluded any reconciliation:

 

Mooney was the first conflict between Olson and Warren, but they skirted a direct confrontation in that case. The Radin nomination was Warren's most regrettable contribution to their fight, and Olson understandably hit back. The release of the
Point Lobos
defendants, however, was of a different type: It challenged Warren directly and personally, and it hinted that he lacked integrity. Once those defendants walked free, Olson could never again count on support from the state's attorney general.

With their feud now a matter of public record, the two men turned to the state's most pressing concern, its readiness for war. As they did, their antagonisms sharpened, and their genuine dislike for each other ripened.

By January 1941, Warren had already begun moving on his own to establish his place as the leader in preparing California for war. That month, he convened law-enforcement officers, and emerged with a plan to divide the state into nine regions, with systems in place for coordinating any needed response between police agencies. “One thing we have to avoid is the stampeding of highways for places of safety in the suburbs in case of bombing or sabotage in the San Francisco and Los Angeles areas,” Warren said at that conference.
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This type of planning came naturally to Warren: It placed him in a group of police and prosecutors, and it was nonpartisan in nature and dedicated to addressing a specific, urgent problem. Throughout 1940 and 1941, he pursued that effort through his group, named the State Civil Defense Council.

Viewed through Olson's eyes, Warren's moves looked like political base-building by a man bent on higher office. In those months, Warren told friends and family that he relished being attorney general and was inclined to run again for that office, but Olson did not know that and probably would not have believed it in any event. So he set about to check Warren's efforts, treating Warren's civil defense planning as pure politics. Olson created his own State Council of Defense, installed himself as chairman, and picked Richard Graves, an old friend of Warren's, to serve as its executive director.

Had Graves been allowed to function, Warren probably would have acquiesced; he agreed to accept a position with the council, and through much of 1941 Warren and Graves met often. Minutes of their sessions show both men contributing and lending help to each other.
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But Graves felt hamstrung in the position, and Olson expended political capital in a labored effort to create a state guard—needed, he said, to protect California in the event that the National Guard troops were called up and sent into combat, leaving California defenseless. Olson had some legislative and press support for that idea, but as was often the case during his administration, he became embroiled in a self-defeating struggle with the legislature, in this case over the size and funding of the organization. The debates stretched on, and deals whittled away at the size and composition of the force. The eventual bill to reach Olson's desk authorized a force of only 7,000 men and no infantry units; he signed it reluctantly.
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Yet again, Warren's effort had the appearance of being professional—an impression reinforced by the Republican media—while Olson came off as compromising and ineffective.

While Olson and Warren jostled for position, Warren was moving elsewhere to extend his reach. One of those moves, in the spring of 1941, catapulted him into new and influential company. Founded in 1872 by journalists at the
San Francisco Examiner
, the Bohemian Club was well established in fact and lore. Herbert Hoover was a member, as was Robert Sproul, Warren's friend and schoolmate from U.C. Berkeley. Its other two thousand or so members included much of the business and political elite of California and the nation. It was staid, solid, moneyed, powerful. And its annual summer camp near the Russian River was already—and soon would become even more—a legend, a conglomeration of the nation's powerful men, hidden in a redwood grove from public view and engaged in the chummy warmth of powerful men at ease. What's more, the Bohemian Club with its Grove appealed to other, less conspicuous but more deeply tended aspects of Warren's personality. It cultivated artists and encouraged song and revelry—indeed, artists were offered special memberships, and they helped enliven its annual summer retreats. As a politician, Earl Warren naturally was drawn to the contacts that the club supplied, but he was a poet of a sort, too, and the club spoke to him in that way as well. For Warren, the Bohemian represented an apex of his long cultivation of clubs. “I have long had a desire to be a member,” he wrote in 1941.
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Even though he was the attorney general of California, admittance was not guaranteed. He was required to produce sponsors and demonstrate a personal relationship with at least five members of the applicant committee. That he did. After due consideration, Warren was admitted to the club and, at its Grove, made a member of its so-called Isle of Aves, one of the Grove's encampments. From that day forward, Warren would rarely miss spending a few days each summer at the Grove, to escape the heat of Sacramento. There he was known in the aviary lingo of the Grove as “Snow Owl Warren” (campmates included “Fledgling Fenston,” “Bald Eagle Hall,” “Grouse Ganter,” etc.). In the shade of the Grove's famous redwoods, and with a breeze blowing off the ocean and the nearby river, Warren would relax in the company of California's economic and political and artistic leadership.

Culbert Olson was not Bohemian Club material. So as Warren and Olson were taking the measure of each other in the fall of 1941, they were listening to the advice of two distinctly different groups of friends. That Olson would seek reelection was assumed and urged by his advisers. Meanwhile, William Knowland, after canvassing politicians throughout the state, wrote to Warren in September 1941 to report “unanimity of opinion that you would be by far the strongest potential candidate, and the only one in or out of the Republican party who could defeat Olson.”
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Still, Warren continued to resist, and appears to have been genuinely conflicted. As 1941 drew nearer to a close, Warren remained undecided, torn between his frustration with the governor and his natural caution. He conferred and listened, searching for some definitive sign that would tip him decisively toward seeking reelection or taking on the governor. War provided it.