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

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.

Eventually, the newspapers got wind of these indulgences and started reporting on Cohen’s behind-bars shenanigans. In response, the federal government dispatched an investigator to Los Angeles to tighten controls. Care packages from LaVonne and the multiple baths a day were ended. Greatly stressed, Fitzgerald retired, and a new jailer was appointed. He immediately summoned Cohen to his office and “in a very excited manner that also carried an apologetic tone” informed Mickey that measures would have to be taken to knock down the rumors in the papers. Mickey replied calmly that there was no satisfying the press: If he was put into solitary confinement on the roof, he told his new jailer, some newspaper would surely report it was penthouse living. Little did Mickey know that his life was about to take a turn for the worse.

One day in early 1952, soon after Mickey’s awkward interview with the new warden, Cohen was rudely awakened at five in the morning and, without even being given a chance to put on his socks or shoes, brought into the chief jailer’s office. There he found the Justice Department representative and two U.S. marshals waiting for him, along with an order to transfer him immediately to the city-run Lincoln Heights Jail. Mickey Cohen was about to enter the domain of Chief William H. Parker.

Cohen was placed in solitary confinement. His cell had no windows or furniture, only a toilet and a concrete slab. No toilet paper was provided. Mickey’s request to take a shower was denied. No outside food was permitted. He was not allowed to shave or to see a barber. In order to ensure that no friends on the force did him any favors, Parker and Hamilton instituted rules that barred any officer from interacting with Cohen in any way without having a lieutenant and a third officer present. When his wife, LaVonne, arrived for a visit, she was allowed four minutes—and forced to speak to Cohen through a speaking tube. Even newspapers were restricted, lest someone try to communicate with Mickey through code.

On the fourth day of his confinement, chief U.S. marshal James Boyle came to visit. He professed to be shocked (shocked!) by Cohen’s conditions.

“Mickey, my God, why don’t you let me make arrangements to get you out of here and send you on your way to McNeil Island Penitentiary, where you will at least get some fresh air occasionally and some exercise,” Boyle said, with faux sympathy.

Four days in the hands of the LAPD seemed to have done the trick. “I had to get out of the clutches of certain vultures in the LAPD,” concluded Cohen. His attorney was summoned and (with a police officer present as a witness), he agreed that if Mickey couldn’t take these conditions anymore, he should go ahead and request removal to McNeil Island. So Mickey did so. The next day, on March 13, Cohen was flown to Tacoma to begin serving his federal prison term.

Although their client was absent, Cohen’s attorneys went forward with their appeal. It was rejected. Cohen’s incarceration was now official. He would be eligible for parole in twenty-two months.

LaVonne escaped conviction, after the prosecution decided to drop their unprecedented attempt to go after a mob spouse for her husband’s misdeeds. But Mickey’s incarceration left her in a difficult position. His gang had largely been dismantled; his rivals were ascendant; his assets were scattered (or hidden). The guests who had flocked to Mickey’s table now drifted away. One of the few people who didn’t forget her was Billy Graham. Knowing that LaVonne was probably hard up for money, Graham allegedly arranged for a $5,000 gift to tide her over while Mickey was in prison. He also occasionally sent a car over to pick her up for dinner. On one occasion, soon after he’d had a chance to exchange a few words with Mickey, Graham appealed to LaVonne to turn to the Lord.

“Mickey is in a terrible frame of mind—very bitter, LaVonne,” Graham said, consolingly. “Why don’t you accept Christianity?”

“I am a Christian girl,” said LaVonne. “A Catholic or something—I think.”

Graham pressed on, confident, no doubt, that nothing less than a full-scale born again experience would suffice to save the Cohens.