Feature: President Roosevelt Takes a Ride Up 5th Street

A black and white Photo of Fifth Street. In the picture, you see President Franklin D. Roosevelt, in 1933, riding in an open car on 5th Street NW, between D and E Streets. How did that happen? Fifth Street is not the place a president, in 1933, or anytime for that matter, wishes to be seen. What follows may suggest the answer.

I first set foot on 5th Street, between D and F, in October 1948 when I was admitted to the D.C. Bar. I learned that the 5th Street of 1948 was about the same as it was when President Roosevelt was there.

In 1948 the Georgetown Law School occupied a red brick building at 5th and E Streets. It cast many ambitious lawyers-to-be into the stream of people who circulated along 5th Street. There was also the gray Columbian Building whose tenants were solo or small firm lawyers engaged in quick buck, cash-up-front fees.

The occupants were uninhibited in their social and personal pursuits. Each cherished his or her own idiosyncrasies and wore his proudly.

The 5th Street sidewalk opposite the police court was occupied each morning by lawyers, bondsmen, clients, the police, and the well-dressed criminal element. This criminal element was the inventory—the stock in trade—for all this activity.

As I got to know 5th Street in the mornings, I noticed a man on the sidewalk (often called 5th Street beach) who was the center of attention. He was about 5 feet, 9 inches tall, weighing in at 200 pounds and wearing a double-breasted brown suit. Each person who walked by him—lawyers, judges, the police—gave him a deferential nod. Who was he? He was Charlie Ford. He controlled the criminal business. He was known to be the close friend of the chief of police, Major Barrett. He was the chief counsel for bookmakers, con men, and all others who did well in crime. When a police court judge was arrested for driving under the influence, she called Charlie Ford. In addition to the influence he had because of his connections, Ford was, in fact, an exceptionally gifted lawyer.

In the picture, Ford has his back to the camera. He is on the running board of President Roosevelt’s car. The Secret Service agents, Ford’s friends, invited him up.

The distinguished members of the Bar, the “uptown” Bar, had in those days their offices on 15th Street. They did not want to be seen on 5th Street. There was much more than six degrees of separation between them, and they wanted to keep it that way.

You also see in the picture Milton S. Kronheim Sr. standing next to the big sign bearing his name. Under it, in big letters, you see the word “BONDSMAN,” with home and office numbers.

Kronheim (1888–1986) had friendships with lawyers and judges, police officers, journalists, retail liquor dealers, old athletes, politicians, local businessmen, Little Sisters of the Poor, and has-beens.

How did this come about? In the late 1880s, Kronheim’s father was the proprietor of a Capitol Hill bar, popular with politicians. Young Kronheim was fascinated by men of influence. Thereafter, at each stage of Kronheim’s long life, he made friends with them all. One of those friendships was with then Senator, and later President, Harry S Truman. More about that in the lines that follow.

Kronheim left school when he was 15 years old and went into business on his own after a dispute with his boss, who had a small retail liquor business. Young Kronheim rented a room in Georgetown where he set up a mail order liquor business. In those days liquor could be bought and sold through the mail. J. Paul’s restaurant now occupies the site.

He prospered. Things were going well. But the Eighteenth Amendment to the Constitution outlawed alcoholic beverages starting in 1920.

Without missing a step, Kronheim set himself up as a bail bondsman with an office on 5th Street.

A person arrested could go free only if a bondsman signed on to a bond that secured the defendant’s attendance in court. If the defendant failed to show up on his court date, or just jumped bond, the bondsman forfeited the bond. There was no such thing as release on personal recognizance, as is done now.

In 1933, when Congress re-pealed the Eighteenth Amendment, Kronheim returned to the liquor business as a wholesale distributor. He prospered both as a businessman and as a public citizen, contributing to many charities, some publicly, most anonymously.

Kronheim thought he was a pretty good athlete. He fancied himself a boxer and a baseball player. He punched the heavy bag in the Arcade gym located at 14th Street and Park Road. At that time, John Sirica, later the famous Watergate judge, boxed as an amateur and also as a professional under another name so his parents would not know he was in the fight game.

Kronheim liked to spar with John Sirica so he could brag to his friends that he put the gloves on with a professional boxer. During one of the sparring matches, Kronheim got too frisky. John Sirica slowed him down by giving him a black eye.

When Kronheim got home, his wife angrily asked him how he got the black eye. He said proudly he had been boxing a few rounds with Johnny Sirica. His wife said, “If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times, you are no boxer. One of these days Johnny Sirica is going to knock your head off.” Years later, Kron- heim liked to tell this story when Judge Sirica was in the audience. He accompanied the story by adopting the movements of the great boxer he thought he was.

During the summer months, Kronheim arranged for baseball games on Sunday mornings at the 16th and Kennedy Streets ball diamond. He pitched for the Kronheim Tigers. A good local pitcher pitched for the other team. Kronheim continued with baseball into his 80s.

Kronheim gave an interview of his first meeting with President Truman. It is preserved in the Harry S Truman Library and Museum:

President Truman ran for reelection in 1948. Few believed he had a chance. Kronheim thought otherwise. He was one of the original contributors to Truman’s campaign fund.

Kronheim’s wide range of friendships among influential people gave him access to gossip, classified information, and personal disclosures. There were conversations in which he knew more about what was being said than the vain participants themselves. He was circumspect. He remained silent.

Kronheim, when he was in his office, took all the telephone calls (there were many of them) as they came. His secretary had orders never to ask who’s calling.

In the picture is the big sign “Roosevelt Republican Club.” Under it are the words “Robert?I. Miller. Pres.” Miller had his office on 5th Street. He had a thriving criminal practice with a clientele of rogues and rascals. He tried cases ranging from petty larceny to first-degree murder.

He put together fundraisers for President Roosevelt when the latter ran against Herbert Hoover in 1932. The gossip was that Miller and Kronheim invited Roosevelt to take a ride up 5th Street in recognition of 5th Street’s effort to get Roosevelt elected. Furthermore, they wanted to thank him personally for doing away with Prohibition.

As you see in the picture, Miller’s distinguished appearance resembled that of President Warren G. Harding or a Kentucky colonel. The walls of his 5th Street office were covered with autographed photos of prominent politicians, known and unknown.

His shock of white hair, white mustache, broad-brimmed hat, and courtly manner placed him among the most picturesque of the 5th Street lawyers.

Six months before February 21, 1944, Miller learned that his wife, Marguerite, was carrying on a love affair with Dr. John E. Lind, a psychiatrist connected with St. Elizabeths Hospital. Miller was 67, his wife was 42.

On February 21 he learned that his wife would be shopping at Woodward?& Lothrop’s department store and, after shopping, she would meet Lind who would be in his car in front of Woodie’s. Miller decided to go there and confront them both.

When he saw his wife get into Lind’s car, things happened, but just what did happen turned out to be a conflict in the testimony.

Miller’s version, as given from the witness stand, was that he tried to get his wife out of Lind’s car. Lind told Marguerite not to get out. Lind had a gun with him in the car. Miller knew Lind carried a gun. He was afraid Lind would shoot him. In self-defense, he shot Lind twice and killed him.

There was a gun in the car when the police came. Whose gun was it? There was testimony from a witness that Miller put the gun in the car, suggesting that he had planned the defense of self-defense.

When the case was tried, Miller had two defenses. First, self-defense, that is, he was afraid Lind would shoot him as he was trying to get his wife from the car. The second defense was an insanity defense. Miller acted under an irresistible impulse that he could not control.

The trial began on May 15, 1944, some three months after the shooting. A federal judge from West Virginia was called in to preside. Two psychiatrists testified that Miller was mentally unable to determine right from wrong, that he had a mental disease called severe compulsive psychosis. When Miller testified, he gave his version.

A witness testified that he saw Miller put an envelope with a gun in it on the car seat before the shooting. Mrs. Miller testified in a way to help her husband. She said Lind carried the envelope and the gun on the seat of his car at all times.

The jury found Miller not guilty. He went right back to work on 5th Street and he resumed his marriage to Marguerite. His law practice thrived. Shoot a man in broad daylight and get acquitted. He is the lawyer for me. Miller’s lawyer, Mason Welch, gave a closing argument that is a masterpiece. I have a copy of the transcript. If you would like a copy, just let me know.