This is the first in a series of excerpts based on an article I wrote for the October 2004 issue of Connecticut Magazine that shares insight into the downfall of Joe Ganim who’s trying to make a historic rebound following his 2003 conviction on federal corruption charges. It tells the story of what went wrong, the intoxication of power leading to a young, talented politician’s demise, starting in 1994, as Ganim seeks redemption 20 years later.
Donald Trump placed his right hand on the shoulder of a model – tall, blonde, striking, must have been 22 – and with his left hand steered Joe Ganim by the shoulder, easing the two together. “Let me introduce you to a friend of mine,” Trump cooed above the noise at a party for ABC soap stars in Trump’s Plaza hotel, inching her close to the mayor of Bridgeport. “You see this man?” Trump asked. “He’s the most powerful man in Connecticut.”
“Oh, really, how powerful are you?” she shimmered. “And do you dance?” I’d heard about the magical deals the tycoon had cut, but this was one quick potential hook up on a hot August night in 1994; a little dance, a little wine, those legendary plaza suites a short elevator away. Ganim, a married man of many tastes and interests, took notice of the witnesses. “No, I don’t dance,” said the mayor, “but you see this man over here,” as he grabbed my arm, “he’s really the most powerful man in Connecticut – and he dances.”
Not on this night. On this night, Donald Trump, who early that summer announced plans to build a massive theme park along Bridgeport’s impressive waterfront, was courting Joe Ganim.
The mayor of Bridgeport had a tricky balancing act. Connecticut’s General Assembly was debating a bill to expand legalized gambling in the state beyond the popular Foxwoods Casino operated by the Mashantucket Pequot Nation. The driving force behind the legislation was Trump’s chief gaming rival, Steve Wynn, he of the neon, volcanic eruptions, white tigers and rain forests of the swanky Mirage Resorts in Las Vegas. Wynn had already spent millions in Connecticut pushing the gaming agenda on lobbyists, lawyers, advertising and community rallies; schmoozing and boozing, wining and dining legislators, offering junkets to Las Vegas and spreading goodwill about what he would do for Connecticut’s tired economy. In August 1994, Ganim was not only mayor of the likely city to host a casino, he was also the Democratic candidate for lieutenant governor and an extremely influential player in the casino sweepstakes.
All this casino talk had Bridgeport buzzing. Connecticut was just hours from Atlantic City, NJ where Trump owned three casinos. Whatever happened in Connecticut would unquestionably impact Trump’s interests in Atlantic City. Just 50 miles from New York City, a Bridgeport casino could reverse the flow of gamblers from the lucrative New York market and entice slot enthusiasts from the Fairfield County gold coast.
A gaming operation in southern Connecticut that Trump did not control would devastate his Atlantic City business. From Trump’s perspective, not only was Atlantic City not big enough for him and Wynn, neither was the tri-state area that included New York and Connecticut. In fact, if Trump could figure a way, he’d drive Wynn from the Nevada desert across California and into the Pacific. Ganim was rightly suspicious of Trump’s overture to the city. Did Trump really want to do a theme park in the city, or did he just want to tie up property so Wynn couldn’t get it?
Joe Ganim knew a good invitation when he got one, and dinner with the Donald certainly sounded tasty. So when Ganim asked me to tag along to Manhattan that day in August, I was game. The night began in the Oak Room, Trump’s restaurant in the Plaza Hotel, the symbol of luxury in Donald’s trophy empire that he bought during the real estate boom of the 1980s for a cool $400 million in borrowed money. The Plaza Hotel’s rich history and French Renaissance architecture was awe-inspiring. Overlooking Central Park south at 59th Street and 5th Avenue, the Plaza was a haven for the well-heeled and high-heeled including the likes of Alfred Gwynne Vanderbilt who was the first to sign the guest register when the landmark opened for business in 1907. Even in the Oak Room, where wealth, fame and power dominate, diners paused momentarily to catch a good look at Donald, as much rock star as developer. We all shook hands, and then Donald said, “Hey, we don’t have to eat here. There are a few parties we could go to. We’ll talk business and pick a long the way. C’mon, ABC is throwing a party for their soap stars around the corner, let’s go.”
In step, we followed Donald, cutting a swath through the lavish corridors of Trump’s hotel to a Plaza party room where a bunch of pretty people, soap stars and supermodels drove carrot sticks into dips, popped bubbly, chatted about their daytime dramas and danced to the music of a live pop band. “This is the place to be. It’s incredible, isn’t it?” Donald crowed. We looked at him with polite approval. The room was loaded with party-hired supermodels. Donald surveyed the scene. “There was a time…” and his voice trailed off. Ivana was long gone by this time and his new wife, Marla Maples, the Georgia peach and former model herself, was the woman in his life now, along with baby Tiffany. The supermods also took notice of Donald. They gravitated to that blue suit like lint. But this night was about Joe Ganim. Donald shifted gears.
“Okay, there’s a party for the Wilhelmina modeling girls at a club down the street,” Trump said. “Let’s go there.” Trump’s limo driver motored down 5th Avenue and Donald waxed expansively about some of his properties. The Plaza, the Empire State Building, his massive West Side Highway project, the this and the that. As we spilled out of the limo a camera crew from Germany at the entrance to the club spotted Donald and threw a spotlight on him. Trump never missed a beat. “They love me in Germany, they love me in New York and they love me in Bridgeport!”
The club was dark, mobbed, beered up and loud. On a small stage some lovely Wilhelmina models were doing their thing. They had long legs and skirts that if they’d been any shorter would have been belts. A thumping crowd hooted and cheered them on, a purplish haze floated around the ceiling lights. Even in the bedlam, everyone recognized Donald. He was like a movie star crashing a nightclub. Towering over the short mayor in size, but not in prestige, Trump shouted through the buzz, “You’ll never have this kind of fun with Wynn!”
Joe Ganim, who owned a superior scent for b.s., knew a master was playing him, but he didn’t care. Ganim loves fun. On the drive home, he said, “This is the kind of thing you could tell your friends, ‘Hey, I went bar crawling with Donald Trump the other night.’”
For five years, this would be my life with Joe Ganim. Big city nights, heart-pounding clubs, saucy saloons, Kobe steak and fabulous bottles of Bordeaux. And, along the way, things got really crazy. Because of my relationship with Trump, Joe and I would do more than bar crawl. By 1994, halfway through Joe’s second term, people knew the mayor had knighted me his political “guru” the friend and consultant who had positioned him for a gubernatorial run just one term into his mayoralty. Four months after that night on the town, at the suggestion of Trump’s Connecticut attorney Leonard Blum, Trump wanted to hire me, Ganim’s closest political advisor, as a public relations consultant to represent his interests.
Doing p.r. for Trump was an alluring proposition. Initially, I wasn’t so much interested in what it could generate in dollars and cents as having a high profile client like the Donald. Sure, he’s an egomaniacal, shameless self-promoter, but so what. So are politicians, I thought, and I represent them all the time. This was good for the resume and if the night in August was any indication, association with the Donald could mean mucho Manhattan jaunts. Since most of the business and political establishment was backing Wynn, I knew I had value. My relationship with Joe Ganim from 1991 to 1995 was extremely close. We were close in age, loved politics and I provided him something he needed for his political future, the ability to frame a message to the electorate. Campaign work seduced me. For me it’s like a sporting competition: my candidate against the others. Ganim respected my work and I enjoyed the friendship. Without question, people eventually started coming to me because they wanted something from Ganim, be it access or a job for a nephew.
Then a simple dinner on December 1, 1994 changed my life and Joe Ganim’s. The mayor, Paul Pinto, a 23-year-old Ganim friend and fundraiser, and I were dining at Ralph and Rich’s, a restaurant in Downtown Bridgeport. I was excited about the potential of representing Trump and had a meeting scheduled with him in a few days to discuss the terms of our agreement. Ganim looked at me. “How much are you going to ask Trump to pay you?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said, “maybe three or four thousand per month.”
Ganim giggled. “Lennie, are you nuts? Donald Trump isn’t paying you because of your public relations skills. He’s paying you because of your relationship with me. Take advantage of it. Ask him for eight or ten thousand per month. It won’t be a deal killer.”
On Dec. 5, I met Donald at his headquarters on 5th Avenue. For all the media coverage I had read about Donald being a germ freak, he extended his hand. “I’m glad you’re coming on board,” he said, standing tall in his customary blue threads.
He invited me to sit down. “Lennie, I want you to be my eyes and ears in Connecticut,” he started, looking at me from across his desk. “Let me know any information you pick up about gaming in the state. Let me know what the mayor is thinking, your friends in the media. I know Ganim likes to have fun in Manhattan. He loves the bullshit, doesn’t he? Here’s where I stand on the gaming bill. I’d rather kill it than see it happen, but if a casino happens I want it.”
Then Trump got down to financial business. “What are your needs. This is really important to me.”
I knew I was totally removed from Trump’s league when it came to the art of negotiation but this was fun so I went for it. I had nothing to lose. “Most of the players in Bridgeport are with Wynn. It sounds like you will need a lot of my time and I’m willing to put in the time. I would like an up front payment of $10,000, followed by a monthly retainer of $8,000.”
“You know, a lot of p.r. guys charge me less because of what my relationship brings them,” Trump said sternly. “What are you like a fucking baseball player, you want a $10,000 signing bonus?”
“I figure since most everyone is with Wynn, I will be expending a lot of political capital working for you.”
“Well, don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” Trump snapped, as a way of putting me in my place. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll pay you four thousand for the first month to see how you work out and then pay the eight thousand.”
“Norma!” he shouted across his desk to Norma Foerderer, his long-time administrative assistant, who swiftly entered his office. “I want you to cut a check right now for $10,000 and make it out to Lennie Grimaldi.”
A few minutes later Norma presented the check to Donald who signed it on the spot and handed it to me.
“I’m counting on you to do a good job,” Trump said, walking me to the door. “Don’t let me down.”
An apprentice was born. Over the next three and one half years consultant payments I received from Trump totaled more than $300,000. With clients like Trump who needed slot machines. The first thing I did after leaving Trump was to visit Ganim at Bridgeport City Hall.
“So,” Ganim asked, “how did it go?” Bragging does not suit me well, but what the heck, I was sharing good news with a friend, right? I showed him the check for ten grand.
“You got more money!” Ganim beamed. “Len, Len,” Joe drew out my name slowly. “I hooked you up. I told you he’d pay you more because of me.”
“Well, thanks for the suggestion,” I said. But from that day forward my friendship with Joe Ganim would never be the same. Our relationship had moved irretrievably from friendship to finances. In the weeks and months and years to follow,Ganim reminded me relentlessly how much money Trump was paying me because of him. And he made it clear – if I wanted the gravy train to continue with Trump and other potential clients – it was pay back time.
