THE FOLLOWING IS A transcription of a personal tape recording made by the author on 19 November, 1968. To my knowledge, the testimony it contains is not duplicated in any official recording, transcription, or document now in existence.
AUTHOR: This will be a recording GO-1A. Will you identify yourself, please, and state your place of residence.
RYAN: My name is Kenneth Ryan. I live at one-one-nine-eight West Nineteenth Street, New York.
AUTHOR: And will you please state your occupation and where you work.
RYAN: I’m a doorman. I’m on the door at five-three-five East Seventy-third Street in Manhattan. I’m usually on eight in the morning until four in the afternoon. Sometimes we switch around, you understand. There’s three of us, and sometimes we switch around, like when a guy wants to go somewhere, like he’s got a family thing to go to. Then we switch around. But generally I’m on eight to four during the day.
AUTHOR: Thank you. Mr. Ryan, as I explained to you previously, this recording will be solely for my own use in preparing a record of a crime that occurred in New York City on the night and morning of August thirty-first and September first, 1968. I am not an officer of any branch of the government—city, state, or federal. I shall not ask you to swear to the testimony you are about to give, nor will it be used in a court of law or in any legal proceeding. The statement you make will be for my personal use only and will not be published without your permission, which can only be granted by a signed statement from you, giving approval of such use. In return, I have paid you the sum of one hundred dollars, this sum paid whether or not you agree to the publication of your statement. In addition, I will furnish you—at my expense—a duplicate recording of this interrogation. Is all that understood?
RYAN: Sure.
AUTHOR: Now then … this photograph I showed you. … Do you recognize him?
RYAN: Sure. That’s the fly who told me his name was Sidney Brevoort.
AUTHOR: Well … actually this man’s name is Thomas Haskins. But he told you he was Sidney Brevoort?
RYAN: That’s right.
AUTHOR: When did this happen?
RYAN: It was early in June. This year. Maybe the third, maybe the fourth, maybe the fifth. Around then. This little guy comes up to me in the lobby where I work. That’s five-three-five East Seventy-third Street, like I told you.
AUTHOR: About what time was this?
RYAN: Oh, I don’t remember exactly. Maybe nine forty-five in the morning. Maybe ten. Around then. “Good morning,” he says, and I say, “Good morning.” And he says, “My name is Sidney Brevoort, and I am a field representative of the New Urban Reorganization Committee. Here is my identification card.” And then he shows me his card, and it’s just like he says.
AUTHOR: Did the card have his photo on it?
RYAN: Oh, sure. All printed and regular like. Official—know what I mean? So he says, “Sir …”—he always called me sir—he says, “Sir, my organization is making an informal census of the dwellings and population of the East Side of Manhattan from Fifth Avenue to the river, and from Twenty-third Street on the south to Eighty-sixth Street on the north. We are trying to get legislation passed by New York State allowing for a bond issue to finance the cost of a Second Avenue subway.” That’s as near as I can remember to what he says. He’s talking very official, you know. Very impressive, it was. So I says, “You’re damned right. They had the bonds for that years ago, and then they went and pissed the money away on other things. Right into the politicians’ pocket,” I tells him. And he says, “I can see you keep up on civic affairs.” And I says to him, “I know what’s going on.” And he says, “I am certain you do, sir. Well, to help convince New York State legislators that this bill should be passed, the New Urban Reorganization Committee is making an actual count of everyone on the East Side of Manhattan in the area I mentioned who might conceivably benefit by a Second Avenue subway. What I’d like from you are the names of people living in this building and the numbers of the apartments they occupy.”
AUTHOR: And what did you say to that?
RYAN: I told him to go to hell. Well, I didn’t put it in those exact words, you understand. But I told him I couldn’t do it.
AUTHOR: What did he say then?
RYAN: He said it would be voluntary. He said that any tenant who wanted to volunteer information—why, that would be confidential, and their names wouldn’t be given to anyone. They’d just be—you know, like statistics. What he wanted to know was who lived in what apartment, did they have servants, and how they traveled to work, and what time did they go to work and what time did they come home. Stuff like that. So I said, “Sorry, no can do.” I told him Shovey and White at one-three-two-four Madison Avenue managed the house, and all us doors got strict orders not to talk to anyone about the tenants, not to give out no information, and not to let anyone into tenants’ apartments unless we get the okay from Shovey and White.
AUTHOR: What was his reaction to that?
RYAN: That little shit. He said he could understand it because of all the robberies on the East Side recently, and would it be all right if he called Shovey and White and asked for permission to talk to me and interview the tenants who would volunteer to talk to him. So I said sure, call Shovey and White, and if they say it’s okay, then it’s okay with me. He said he’d call them and if it was okay, he’d have them call me to give me the go-ahead. He asks me who he should talk to at Shovey and White, and I told him to talk to Mr. Walsh who handles our building. I even gave him the phone number … oh, the filth of him! Then he asks me if I had ever seen Mr. Walsh, and I had to tell him no, I had never set eyes on the guy. I only talked to him twice on the phone. You gotta understand, these managers don’t take no personal interest. They just sit on their ass behind a phone.
AUTHOR: What did the man you know as Sidney Brevoort do then?
RYAN: He said he’d call Shovey and White and explain what he wanted and have Mr. Walsh contact me. So I said if it was okay with them, it was okay with me. So he thanked me for my trouble—very polite, you understand—and walked away. The dirty little crud.
AUTHOR: Thank you, Mr. Ryan.