William 'Boss' Tweed | New York's Forty Thieves | 1

It's the afternoon of January 24th, 1871 in New York City. Eighth Avenue is bright with snow several inches deep, and locals are making the most of the weather.

Horse-drawn sleighs rush up and down the wide street, their riders bundled in furs and thick woolen coats. An hour ago, James Watson drove his sleigh uptown from his home on Madison Avenue and 42nd Street.

He and his driver stopped in at a club for a drink, then turned for home. With so many people enjoying sleigh rides, there are deep ruts in the snow, so James handed the reins to his coachman for the return journey.

Better to let the more experienced man be in charge in conditions like this, right? So, now James is sitting back, watching the city pass by. James Watson lives a very comfortable life.

He's a county auditor in the New York Comptroller's Office, which comes with a modest salary. But despite his relatively small government paycheck, he lives in a newly built mansion with an adjoining stable for his growing horse collection.

One of the two horses pulling his sleigh right now cost $10,000. That's an eye-watering amount when you consider that most laborers in the city earn somewhere around a dollar a day.

Most of the newspapers report that James has simply made his wealth through good investments. But the truth is a lot more complicated. As James' sleigh nears 130th Street, a horse headed in the opposite direction veers suddenly across the road.

James startles out of his reverie as he feels the vehicle jolt to the side. His coachman is pulling on the reins, trying to move out of the path of the spooked horse. But the ruts in the snow keep the sleigh on its path.

There's nothing they can do. Within seconds, the horse has plowed into James' team, splitting the yoke of his own horses. A shaft of wood harnessed to the runaway drives into James' $10,000 mare, killing her instantly.

The force of the collision jolts James out of his seat, throwing him against the dashboard of the oncoming sleigh. Before he can even process what's happened, James feels a thunderous pain in his head, and everything goes dark.

When he comes to moments later, James has trouble opening his eyes. It's such a tremendous effort. His head feels like it's been split in two, and he's sure he can taste blood.

Lying there in the snow, he can hear men shouting. Someone is told to go ahead and let the nearby gentleman's club know to expect an injured man in a few minutes. Another person says something about a cracked skull.

James tries to raise his hand to wave everyone off. He's sure that all he needs is a good night's sleep and a little patching up. He doesn't want all the fuss.

But despite the fact that he'll make it home in one piece, James Watson doesn't have long to live. Within a week, he'll be dead from his injuries.

And his death will turn this freak accident into a domino that topples one of the most powerful political machines America has ever built. From Airship and Evergreen Podcast, I'm Jeremy Schwartz, and this is American Criminal.

If you ask historians about New York City politics in the 19th century, I'm willing to bet one name comes up more than anyone else. William Tweed.

At the height of his power, Bill Tweed had almost complete control over the political machine that kept New York running.

And if you think he got that position by doing things that were all above board, allow me to relieve you of that misapprehension. Bill Tweed was one of the first true political bosses in American history.

He exploited an already corrupt system, pulling the strings to get his way, molding the city to suit his vision, and using his unparalleled power to silence anyone who tried to stop him.

This was at a time when the Great American Experiment was in its infancy. Its great cities were still developing, as were its laws. Elections were a wild west of stuffed ballot boxes, double voters and gang violence.

All of it ordered by the leaders of the political parties themselves. The winner wasn't always who had the best ideas, but often whose supporters could outfox the competition on election day.

Growing up in a New York city where pigs roamed the unpaved streets to help keep trash under control, Bill didn't notice any of this. He had plenty else on his mind.

But once he reached voting age, he sized up the system and decided he wanted to jump in head first. But why, I hear you ask? Why would anyone want to get involved in something so messy, so dangerous, so unformed?

Simple. My name. This is the first episode in our four-part series on William Boss Tweed, New York's 40 Thieves.

It's the summer of 1833 in New York City, nearly 48 years before James Watson dies following a sleigh accident in a squat building on Cherry Street, not far from where the Manhattan Bridge stands today, young William Tweed is sweeping up wood

shavings. Little Bill, as his parents and siblings call him, isn't actually that small. He's going through a growth spurt lately, and his shoulders stretch his shirt as he pushes sawdust around his father's workshop.

Bill likes helping out his dad with his chair-making business, and stops by most afternoons once he's finished his lessons.

It's just a bonus that the workshop door usually stands open, allowing the sights and sounds of the street beyond to flood into the space.

Today, as he stoops to push a pile of dust into a pan, Bill hears the sound he's loved since he was old enough to walk, the frantic clatter of fire engine bells.

He drops his pan and his broom and rushes out onto the street, which is little more than a stretch of compacted earth between the rows of buildings. Bill's head whips back and forth, looking to see which direction the engine will come from.

Then it appears, all gleaming bells and brass accented wood, the engine of Fire Brigade No. 33. In the span of a few seconds, the engine is passing, Bill.

A team of men surrounds the engine, each with a thick rope in their hands, pulling the vehicle up the street towards their destination. At the head of the group is a man in a bright red shirt, the foreman, the leader.

Bill follows the brigade's journey from where he stands, noticing a trail of smoke drifting up from somewhere around a distant corner.

When the Fire Brigade disappears at last, and the sound of bells fades into the distance, Bill reluctantly turns to go back inside.

But for the rest of the afternoon, all he can think about is those men in their red shirts, the way people stop to watch them run by, and how important they surely feel. That kind of respect has to be intoxicating.

And all little Bill can do is wonder. Born in April of 1823, William Tweed is the youngest of his parents' five children. His dad is a third-generation chair maker, and runs his own business to support the family.

Around the time Bill was born, Richard Tweed finally felt like their finances were secure enough that he could start indulging his kids in small treats from time to time.

When Bill was old enough to start at a local elementary school, Richard began putting aside money just for him. Little Bill seems to have a head for numbers, and is bright in a way Richard doesn't see from his other kids.

He wanted to nurture that potential by buying his youngest the best education possible. I mean, of course Bill's not thinking too far ahead just yet.

I mean, he's happy to help out at his dad's workshop after school each day, but he also likes to spend time playing with the kids his own age. And like plenty of other boys in the city, he's fascinated by the local fire brigade.

This is a time before any kind of municipal firefighting services exist. So, New York's neighborhoods each have their own volunteer groups.

These brigades are a great unifier in the city, with men from all walks of life putting their hands up to join, laborers, lawyers and craftsmen alike.

When a fire breaks out, brigades rush through the streets, pulling their fire engines on thick ropes, racing to be the first to reach whichever building's on fire.

All New York kids have their favorite brigade, and Bill's is the one stationed just a few blocks from his family home, number 33. He likes them so much that his father carefully stamps 33 onto the leather-binding piece on Bill's suspenders.

It's little Bill's greatest wish to be the foreman of Brigade 33 someday. He wants everyone to look at him in his red shirt and instantly know how powerful he is, and to respect him completely.

When Bill's about 11, though, it's already time for him to leave his childhood behind. Richard's been working so hard for years, putting in longer and longer hours to produce more chairs to pay for Bill's education.

And it's taken a toll on his health. His heart can't take it anymore. He needs to slow down.

So Bill's mother, Eliza, sits Richard down and tells him how it's going to be. Bill will be taking on a school and learn the family business in the workshop.

Richard needs the help, and it's never too early for a young man to start earning for his family. Now for his part, Bill loves being an apprentice. He spends a lot of time running errands and delivering chairs to customers throughout the city.

Richard wants more for his son, though. It frustrates him to see the smartest of his children falling into the same familiar patterns. So, after two years, he sends Bill off to work for a local saddler and hardware dealer.

At least he can broaden his skill set there. Thirteen-year-old Bill doesn't enjoy this job as much as making chairs with his dad, but there's one undeniable perk to the new gig. He gets paid.

At the end of his first month, he brings a few silver coins home to his mother and hands them over, both of them practically bursting with pride. Over the next year, Bill earns himself a reputation in his neighborhood.

He's tall with a frame that's filling in as he gets older, and other teenage boys gravitate towards him. He wins most of the fights he gets in with other kids, and younger boys often argue over who's going to help Bill carry deliveries for his boss.

When Bill's 14, his father's business has grown so much that the Tweed's can finally afford to send Bill to boarding school for a proper education. And by this stage, Richard's even more anxious for his son to be exposed to new experiences.

Bill's slightly rough and tumble life here in the city is coarse in his personality. But at boarding school, he'll be surrounded by the sons of gentlemen and taught by men of faith. That should soften some of Bill's harder edges.

But after a year away from New York, Bill decides he's done with school. One year was all it took for him to learn bookkeeping skills, and that's enough for him to start making his own way in the world.

So, he turns down his father's offer to pay for more studies and takes a job as a clerk for a tobacco merchant. Soon after that, Richard buys a partial steak in a brush factory, and eventually Bill starts keeping books for them, too.

Even at 17, he demonstrates a business acumen beyond just finances, making thoughtful suggestions on improvements that could be made to the company's structure and management. After about two years, he's made a full partner in the firm.

But Bill's employers aren't the only ones who've taken notice of him. Sometime in 1843, 20-year-old Bill's working in his office at the brush factory when he's visited by an older man in a sharp suit.

He explains that he's a member of Tammany Hall, the local political group that wields a lot of power within the state's Democratic Party. And some of the members of their organization have taken notice of Bill. Bill's nonplussed.

He's not sure what there is to take notice of. But the other man goes on, pointing out Bill's varied experiences in the business world, his popularity at local dance halls, and his likable outgoing nature.

The General Council of Tammany Hall agrees that all of these things make him an ideal candidate for an alderman. Now, in 1843, New York City is divided up into a number of wards, each represented by an alderman and an assistant alderman.

The powers of the men on these boards cover a lot of ground, including the appointing of all police officers within their individual wards, selecting the pools of men juries are chosen from, and sitting as judges in criminal courts.

As a body, they also vote to award licenses to run bus and streetcar lines, as well as ferry services within the city limits. It's a big job and not one without its perks.

But it's also an unpaid position, because this is a time when the general belief is that only people who have enough money, not to need any more of it, are competent enough to govern the masses.

Unfortunately, this means that aldermen often feel obliged to use their position to turn a profit however they can. But more on that later. For now, Bill doesn't know about the ways politicians make money, and he turns the offer down.

He wants to build a name for himself in the business world, create a solid foundation for a career and eventually a family. So, thanks, but no thanks. He's happy where he is.

About a year after Bill turns down that proposal from Tammany Hall, he makes one of his own. He and 17-year-old Mary Jane Scotton have known each other basically their whole lives.

Their families are close, and the Scottons own the brush factory that both Bill and his father have small stakes in. When Mary Jane was old enough, Bill started taking her to community dances in the theater.

Now, in the spring of 1844, he saved up enough money to start their life together. He asks her to be his wife, and they get married in short order.

But after he's happily married, Bill's thoughts keep returning to the idea that he should run for office. He never really thought about being a politician until that moment, and it's a very intriguing idea.

Then, he gets a taste of America's brand of democracy and the wheels in his head start turning. That same year, he and Mary Jane Mary, 21-year-old Bill, votes in his first presidential election.

At the polling place, he's shocked to see people standing outside the building, openly offering men money in exchange for their votes. And no one seems to care about this blatant corruption of the election process.

Not even the official election supervisors seem worried. That's just what happens. Bill's curious, so he asks one of these poll watchers how many people typically turn out to vote.

The other man says that about 8% of New Yorkers usually stay home for presidential elections. Now given how many eligible voting men live in New York City, there will probably be around 41,000 votes cast.

So imagine Bill's surprise the next day when he opens the newspaper to read about James Polk's victory, and he sees that more than 55,000 votes were cast in the city. That's about 10,000 more votes than there are eligible voters.

And no one bats an eye, it is incredible. The truth is that elections at this time are still relatively crude. Much like America's democracy itself, the process is evolving, and the current system leaves plenty of room for outright cheating.

Depending upon which political party is in power in each ward, election officials are basically free to stuff the ballot boxes or simply misreport tallies at the end of the day.

While that's going on, some men travel between polling places, casting their votes many times over. They're called repeaters, and it's something that plenty of them are proud of.

They're each doing their bit for the party, and that's all that matters. None of this is covered up. It's just not something that the layperson really talks about.

But it catches Bill's attention, and instead of turning him off the subject of elections, it makes him lean in. He starts to wonder if maybe he should throw his hat in the ring after all.

18:56

It's a cool evening in the fall of 1851. New York City's Seventh Ward is in the Lower East Side near the East River. That's where volunteer fire engine company number six is headquartered.

Tonight, the Big Six, as the locals call them, are parading through the street, showing off their shiny new engine. The Brigade's newest foreman, 28-year-old William Tweed, marches beside the company in a bright red shirt.

The engine has a large tiger painted on each side and is pulled by eight white horses that Bill's borrowed especially for this occasion. The rest of the 75-man team form a guard of honor, each of them carrying a lit torch.

As Big Six makes its way through the neighborhood, locals come outside to cheer the men on. Bill drinks it all in, waving to the small crowds of people, smiling at the young boys staring at him in wonder. It's a dream come true.

Big Six was formed about three years ago. In the fall of 1848, a group of local men came together to fill the void left by the disillusion of the neighborhood's old volunteer brigade.

Bill Tweed was one of the founding members and suggested both the company's official name, Americus Engine Company No. 6, and its Tiger logo. Within a year, Bill was elected the brigade's assistant foreman.

A year later, he was voted the group's leader. That same year, 1850, Bill also ran for public office for the first time. He was nominated for the position of assistant alderman in the Seventh Ward, but lost by just 47 votes.

He was kind of annoyed by that, but he bounced back quickly. After all, he was living his dream as foreman of a fire brigade. And the Big Six wasn't just any band of volunteers.

Their bravado and theatrics earned them a reputation that reached far beyond New York City. In 1851, the brigade even embarked on a tour to Philadelphia, Baltimore, and then to Washington, DC., where they had an audience with President Fillmore.

It might have been this meeting that inspired Bill to run for office again. This time for Alderman. In the fall of that year, he returns home, parades the new fire engine through the streets, and then gets to work courting votes.

The higher-ups within Tammany Hall tell him that if he expects to win, he'll need to put in more of an effort with his campaign than he did the last time. Now, Bill really thinks about this advice and wonders what he can do to make a difference.

It's only been a year, and the political makeup of the ward won't have changed much in that time. The seventh is almost an even split.

There are the business owners and wealthy merchants who typically vote for the Whig Party, a forerunner to Republicans. And you've got the lower-income tradesmen who gravitate towards the Democrats.

So, the people who voted for the Whig candidate in 1850 will probably do the same this year, and it would be an awful lot of effort to change their minds. But maybe he doesn't have to.

About a month or so before the election, Bill pays a visit to his friend, Joel Blackmer. Joel is the well-respected principal of a girls' school in the Seventh Ward, and Bill knows that his opinion will carry a lot of weight in the community.

When he tells Joel that he's running for alderman, the other man's happy for him. Joel always votes for the Whigs, but he promises that he'll vote for Bill this time, and swears to help in any other way he can.

Bill smiles and says he's grateful to hear that. Then he asks if Joel would consider convincing his many friends and professional contacts to cast their vote for Bill too. But Joel says that wouldn't work.

No matter how popular he may be, he won't be able to sway anyone to vote for a Democrat. But Bill's okay with that. He's got another suggestion.

Joel should stand as an independent Whig candidate, turning this into a three-man race. Joel's taken aback by this idea, but he did give his word that he would do whatever he could to help Bill get elected.

Joel Blackmer earns about 200 votes in the contest for Alderman, siphoning most of those from his fellow Whig nominee. And thus Bill Tweed wins the election by 48 votes, and joins the incoming class of Alderman.

With Bill's help, it's a group that will soon earn a dubious nickname. The 40 Thieves Earlier, I told you that New York's Alderman aren't paid, but that plenty of them find creative ways to turn a profit anyway.

23:55

But the general idea is that Alderman take advantage of the powers of their position to extract payments from people looking to do business within the city. Put another way, they take bribes.

If you want to get a contract with New York City, you'll likely have to grease a few palms. Bidding on a construction project, slips some bills to just enough Alderman to get the votes you need.

And if you don't have the money to pay that extra charge, well, there's a way that the city can cover that cost without anyone knowing it. Just to be clear, this isn't something that starts with Bill Tweed, not by a long shot.

But it's a practice that certainly seems to pick up steam once he's involved. And he's definitely creative with the way he goes about it. In 1852, not long after he's sworn in, Bill meets with a landowner.

The city wants to purchase a parcel of land for a potter's field on Ward Island. Bill's there to negotiate the price for the 69 acres. Now, at a rock bottom minimum, this land is worth $50 per acre, and at very most, $800.

It's a big spread, but it gives you an idea of what figures the negotiation should be hovering around, right? If the owner insists on top dollar, he could maybe walk away with 30 grand. Bill offers him just over $103,000.

That's about $1,500 per acre, nearly double the maximum of what a common sense valuation says the land should sell for. Needless to say, the landowner's stunned by the offer.

But Bill smiles and tells him that there are certain conditions that go along with it. What we see here is something called the graft.

That's when a charge to the city is artificially inflated, then approved by an official who coordinates with the biller to split the excess profit.

In this case, Bill has the landowner draw up a quote that's more than 70 grand clear of what it should be.

Now, tracing where that money goes after the city pays it out is another story entirely, but I'm pretty confident that most of it will get split amongst aldermen.

And I wouldn't be surprised if chief negotiator Bill Tweed gets a bigger piece of the pie. There are plenty of stories like this because it seems like the city overpays for just about everything.

That summer, Bill signs off on a delivery of fireworks for the 4th of July. Altogether, the fireworks are worth about $500, but the seller invoices for $4,100, more than eight times their value.

And the taxpayers of New York, they've got no clue where their money's going. But by this stage, money's not Bill's only concern.

I mean, don't get me wrong, he's motivated by money in a big way, but he's quickly understanding that the best way for him to acquire a lot of money is to be in a position of power. That way he can take advantage of an easily corruptible system.

There's no better example of this than a story involving Dr. Abraham Berry, who in addition to being mayor of the city of Williamsburg, is also a wealthy businessman. Dr.

Berry wants to operate a ferry between New York and Williamsburg, which these days is a suburb of Brooklyn. But like I said, doing business with New York means doing business with their aldermen. So Dr.

Berry pays out $20,000 in bribes to be distributed among the council. Simple enough. But Bill Tweed holds things up.

Money is not all Dr. Berry has to offer him. More specifically, it's not all Williamsburg has to offer him.

See, after less than a year as an alderman, Bill's already got his sights set on joining the US. Congress. And to make that happen, he needs to secure an official nomination from the Democratic Party.

If he lived in a district entirely within New York, that wouldn't be an issue. But Bill's district stretches across the water to include Williamsburg, and he's less certain that their delegates will vote for him.

So he holds up the vote on the ferry contract until he has Mayor Barry's word that the Williamsburg delegates will support his nomination. Once that's done, he allows the contract to finally go through.

And to give you an idea of just how deep the government corruption goes at this point in history, Dr. Barry's not off the hook just yet.

After the city's alderman approved the deal, it goes to the mayor of New York City, Ambrose Kingsland, for his signature. Ambrose takes a look at the numbers on a ferry service between the two cities and realizes just how profitable that'll be.

Like his Williamsburg counterpart, he's a successful businessman and is always looking for a way to make a buck. So before he gives the deal a seal of approval, he insists that a friend of his be permitted to buy a fifth of the company from Dr.

Barry. And you can bet that friend gave a healthy cut to his ferry profits right back to Ambrose. But I digress.

Let's get back to Bill, who by this time is considerably richer than he was a year ago, and on a path to the federal government. That November, he wins his election to Congress at age 29 and heads to Washington to swim in a much bigger pond.

When he gets there though, Bill finds the national legislature dull. Things move too slowly for him and he doesn't have the same daily sense of pride and respect that he does when he's working for the people of his city.

Okay, sure, he's basically stealing from them, but to Bill, that's beside the point. He wants to stay in New York. So after his two-year terms up, he won't seek re-election and will return to his growing fiefdom, a city no one day rule.

30:21

It's February 25th, 1853, in a courtroom in New York City. At the front of the room sit three judges, including two who do double duty as aldermen on the council known as the 40 Thieves.

The gallery is packed with reporters from New York's newspapers, all of them excited to write the next chapter in an ongoing saga. That saga being, the 40 thieves have been publicly accused of corruption.

Alderman have been soliciting and accepting bribes, at least that's what their accusers say. And the press have latched on to the story like a dog with a bone. New Yorkers can't get enough.

The relentless onslaught of articles about the accusations have some of the alderman worried. They're powerful, sure, but they're not untouchable. Recently, a grand jury was convened to investigate the matter.

That investigation hit a snag when a witness refused to answer the question of whether he was ever offered a bribe to anyone on the Common Council. So the grand jury proceedings were called to a halt while the prosecutor brought the matter here.

He's hoping that the panel of judges will compel the witness to answer the question. That's why 29-year-old Bill Tweed is in the front row of the gallery. He's staring down the two alderman judges, William Brissley and John Doherty.

Bill knows that the third judge values his own popularity in the community too much to side with the 40 thieves. So, Bill needs both William and John to do the right thing and slap the prosecutor down. If they don't, things could get ugly.

He knows that some of his colleagues are already thinking of fleeing to Canada. Bill thinks they're cowards. He's confident things will go their way if they apply pressure at just the right spots.

So, as he sits there, surrounded by other members of the council, Bill tries to make eye contact with the judges.

He wants them to remember what their positions do for them, how much money they stand to gain if they allow things to continue as they have been, and what their friendship on the council can mean to their continued success as politicians.

Bill can feel his whole body clench as William begins speaking. After a few seconds, it's clear that he's siding with the witnesses' right to stay silent. Instantly, Bill shifts his gaze to John, who seems unusually sweaty for this time of year.

When William finishes making his statement, John puts Bill out of his misery quickly. The motion is rejected. The witness won't be compelled to answer.

Bill and the aldermen on either side of him breathe a collective sigh of relief. They just dodged a bullet. As he stands to leave the courtroom and turn to his day, Bill can't help marvelling at how easy it was to get his way.

He liked it. At the end of February 1853, the grand jury investigation into New York's common council, that's the group of aldermen and assistant aldermen, stalls thanks to some well-placed judges.

Not that that's a shocking twist when the ranks of the city's judges are packed with aldermen. What did anyone expect to happen? Still, people paying attention to the matter are understandably peeved.

Especially when word gets around that Bill and some of the other aldermen were there in the front row staring down the judges. If the council has nothing to hide, then why would they be trying to intimidate witnesses into silence?

If the man in question hadn't ever offered any aldermen a bribe, then wouldn't he and every member of the council want that on the record?

At the very least, it's fishy, and the chapter stirs up enough public interest that a new political party forms in early March. The City Reform Party is founded to do exactly what it says on the label, Reform New York's Political System.

They make a public proposal to curb the powers of the aldermen by removing their authority to sit as judges and appoint policemen. The role of Assistant Alderman will be abolished and replaced with a 60-seat board of councilmen.

The City Reform Party's proposal is printed in newspapers, and every political group in New York passes a resolution calling for it to be adopted. It's clear to everyone that the public wants a change. Fighting it would be a losing battle.

The state legislature quickly puts it to the people in a referendum, which passes in a landslide. So where does Bill Tweed stand in all of this? Well, he pretty much keeps his mouth shut.

He can see which way the winds are blowing. Plus, he's still in the middle of his term as a US congressman. This in addition to working for his father's chair-making business and his father-in-law's brush-making factory.

So he's got other things to focus on. When the 1853 elections roll around, he doesn't even try to retain his position as alderman. He's not giving up on New York politics.

He's just taking a step back to wait and see how things shake out. And by the time he'll be ready to get back into the game, the playing field will look a lot different.

36:07

Fernando Wood has already stood as a mayoral candidate in New York City once before. In 1850, he scored 44% of the votes. When the next election comes around, he's ready to try his hand again.

Like Bill Tweed, he's associated with Tammany Hall and has been climbing the rungs of the group's ladder since the mid-1830s.

Now, something you should know about Fernando Wood is that he's a decently good businessman who's seen his share of financial ups and downs, a lot of the time thanks to cheating his partners and customers. Politically speaking, he's a cockroach.

He can survive just about anything. Plus, he's very good at correctly predicting the way the wind will blow in the future. And, like many of the most successful politicians, he's really, really, really good at lying.

During his campaign in 1854, Wood runs as a Tammany Hall Democrat. And most of Tammany's base is made up of New York's immigrant community, which is predominantly Irish and German.

At the same time, though, Wood secretly accepts a place on the executive committee of the Know Nothing Party. And no, that's not something I just made up. That's really a political party who call themselves the Know Nothings.

They used to be called the Native American Party, and their whole deal is basically that they're all for the advancement of people born in America, specifically people of European descent.

So, in other words, they don't want immigrants coming to New York City, and they don't like Catholics either. So it's a little weird that a politician would be involved with both of those groups, right?

One that embraces immigrants and courts their votes, and one that wants immigrants turned away at the border. But that's Fernando Wood for you. Not that he's open about his affiliation with the Know Nothings.

In fact, when some members of the usually secretive Know Nothings come forward and publicize his membership to their executive committee, Wood lies through his teeth. He calls the report slanderous lies and threatens to sue.

Those Know Nothings aren't the only ones who seem intent on derailing Wood's campaign though. A renegade faction within Wood's own party backs an independent Democrat.

And while both of these things do pull some votes away from Wood's final tally, hmm, it's not enough. He wins office with a little over 20,000 votes.

Why people in both parties tried so hard to derail Wood's campaign is a mystery, though it might be that they don't want a mayor who serves two masters. But that's not something they should be worried about.

As mayor of New York City, Fernando Wood will only serve one master, himself. From Airship, this is episode 1 in our series on William Boss Tweed.

On the next episode, the dictator-like rule of Fernando Wood leads to a seismic clash between two police forces on the streets of New York. We use many different sources while preparing this episode.

A couple we can recommend are Boss Tweed, the story of a grim generation by Dennis Tilden Lynch, and Boss Tweed, the rise and fall of the corrupt Paul who conceived the soul of modern New York by Kenneth D. Ackerman.

This episode may contain reenactments or dramatized details. And while in some cases, we can't know exactly what happened, all our dramatizations are based on historical research.

American Criminal is a co-production of Airship and Evergreen podcasts. It's hosted, edited, and executive produced by me, Jeremy Schwartz. Audio editing and sound design by Sean Ruhl Hoffman.

Music by Thrum. This episode is written and researched by Joel Callan. Managing producers are Emily Burke and Sarah Wilgrew.

Executive producers are Joel Callan and Lindsey Graham.