L.A. Noir: The Struggle for the Soul of America's Most Seductive City

Cohen’s mood darkened. His behavior became more erratic. The following day, a bailiff had to restrain Cohen when he lunged toward a Bureau of Internal Revenue agent. At other times, such as when he lingered to autograph copies of his old friend Jimmy Vaus’s new book, Why I Quit… Syndicated Crime (which Mickey had written the preface to), he was the preening Hollywood celebrity.

The smoking gun, however, came in the form of a net worth statement, signed by Mickey himself, that stated he had earned $244,163.15 in taxable income over a three-year period. Cohen felt blindsided. He’d never understood or paid attention to such things. Keeping him clean was Sackman’s job. Instead, by getting Mickey to sign this statement, Sackman had virtually ensured a conviction. On June 20, the court reached their verdict. Cohen was found guilty of three charges of income tax evasion and on one charge of falsifying a Bureau of Internal Revenue net worth statement. A sentencing date was set for early July. Cohen’s fate was now in Judge Ben Harrison’s hands.

Three weeks later, Cohen returned to court. Judge Harrison began his remarks on a remarkably mild note. “Los Angeles must take part of the responsibility for what has happened to [Cohen],” the judge began. “He was permitted to operate here as a betting commissioner with what I think was the virtual acquiescence of law enforcement officials.”

The judge then expounded on the “questionable environment” in which the “personable” gambler had been raised. He also noted the many letters he had received testifying to Mickey’s good side, prompting the exasperated assistant U.S. attorney to interject that the proceedings risked becoming “a society for the admiration of the good qualities of Mickey Cohen.” While acknowledging that Mickey had “been a good son to his mother,” the prosecutor reminded the judge that “he is here for the bad things he did.”

Judge Harrison shifted course, saying that he saw no prospect of Cohen resisting the temptation of easy money.

Mickey interjected. “Right now, I could go into the drugstore business in Arizona if the authorities hadn’t stopped me,” he said pleadingly. But Judge Harrison brushed this aside. Instead, he sentenced Cohen to a five-year prison term, to be served at the McNeil Island federal penitentiary off the coast of Washington State in the Puget Sound. He also fined Mickey $40,000 and ordered him to pay the government the $156,000 he owed in back taxes for the years 1946-1948, plus the cost of the trial itself, another $100,000.

Cohen was stunned. It was, he would later claim, “the only crime in my whole life of which I can say I am absolutely innocent.”

A request for bail was denied. Instead, Cohen was sent immediately to the county jail. A game of cat and mouse began. Cohen’s attorneys filed a series of motions requesting that their client be allowed to post bail pending a decision on his appeals request. In November, a federal judge ordered Cohen released on bail. But before he could be released, prosecutors succeeded in winning an injunction and then in overturning the order. If Cohen wanted to persist in appealing his conviction, he would do so from jail. In an effort to dissuade him from doing so, law enforcement authorities set out to make Cohen’s life behind bars as miserable as possible. Federal authorities insisted that Cohen be held in isolation and denied access to any visitors other than LaVonne and his attorneys. Only one exception was made to the no-visitors rule and that was for the Rev. Billy Graham, who stood by the little gangster.

“I am praying that after Mickey Cohen has paid his debt to society, he will give his heart and life to Christ,” Graham told Time magazine that summer. “He has the making of one of the greatest gospel preachers of all time.”

The feds’ unsavory strategy to convince Mickey to drop his appeal request should have worked. To someone like Mickey, whose normal routine involved rising around noon, showering for an hour or so, and then changing into fresh (if not new) clothes and shoes, imprisonment wasn’t just an ordeal; it was torture. At least, it should have been. But the feds had a problem: head jailer Charles Fitzgerald, whom Mickey would later describe as “a very good friend.” Fitzgerald was a humanitarian. Under his supervision, Mickey had a way of gaining access to certain indulgences—multiple baths a day instead of just one a week, ready access to a good barber, fresh clothes, and food from outside. Cohen also found ways to exercise his innate talents: Rumor had it that he was running a variety of gambling rackets from the inside.