Cincinnati lawyer was smuggler, model for Gatsby

This marks the first entry of our Cincinnati Icon Series. The Enquirer's RetroCincinnati reporter, Joel Beall, will regularly highlight someone who played an important part in the shaping of our city's history. To submit a nomination, send your candidate to jbeall@cincinna.gannett.com.

Jay Gatsby, the man of fortune and tragedy, was real. His actual name was George Remus. He lived in Cincinnati.

And he was known as the "King of the Bootleggers."

His story is one of the reasons why the Cincinnati Library has designated "The Great Gatsby" as this year's selection for its annual On the Same Page program. Helping build common threads through literature, the event is banking on the popularity of the fictional Jay Gatsby to bring the community together.

Just as Prohibition 95 years ago drove the community apart.

It was 1920 when the U.S. Congress decided to ban toting or selling alcohol. Drinking, bizarrely enough, was still allowed.

As booze and spirits remained in demand, this ban fostered the practice of bootlegging. Spurred by organized crime, the manufacturing and dealing of liquor became a highly profitable industry.

No man benefited more from this movement than Remus.

A Chicago pharmacist and attorney in his early life, Remus became interested in smuggling after studying the twists and turns of the law.

"He noticed all the criminals he was defending as a lawyer were getting rich off bootlegging," said Roy Hotchkiss of the Price Hill Historical Society. "He saw all this money and thought he'd better get in on the action."

Remus, already wealthy, began studying the Volstead Act – the law that enforced Prohibition – and found numerous, glaring technicalities. This is where his pharmaceutical background kicked in.

"You could get a certificate to serve alcohol under the premise of medicine," Hotchkiss said. "It allowed him to abuse the system and the market."

In his research, Remus found that Cincinnati, with its German population, produced over 80 percent of all bonded alcohol. Coupled with Chicago's heavy Mafia, black-market presence in bootlegging, he circled Cincinnati's unfettered market as a place to make his mark.

A mark that still stands today.

Here's how the scheme worked: Remus purchased distilleries and created trucking companies. His own employees would then "steal" his medicinal alcohol so Remus could push it illegally. A 50-acre farm that served as the home base for his enterprise was also acquired for the operation. Within three years of setting up his illegal business, Cincinnati, Remus pulled in $40 million. In today's currency, that's nearly $900 million. Given the annual median income in that time was $1,400, not a bad payday.

Remus was not shy about flaunting his riches. He bought a mansion in Price Hill, decorating it with rare art and exotic plants. For his daughter, he installed a massive indoor pool at a reported cost of $125,000.

He was renowned for throwing lavish galas and events, showering patrons with expensive gifts.

"Remus would have these grand banquets, and under his guests' dinner plates would be jewelry," Hotchkiss said. "At one event, each guest found a set of keys to a new car."

Despite that, Remus was an introvert. He didn't drink or smoke and, during many parties, he would retreat to his personal library. He was also seen as charitable, donating money and presents to those in need.

Still, Remus didn't rise to power by compassion.

"Remus had an untold amount of bribes to the police, lawyers and government," Hotchkiss said. Allegedly, he went as far as paying off the U.S. Attorney General.

Not only did these kickbacks allow Remus to run his operations without interference, but they also forced law enforcement to focus on his rivals. Remus was notorious for ransacking the competition, even getting caught sabotaging a whiskey pipeline at the Jack Daniels distillery in St. Louis.

Remus' farm, located off Queen City Avenue in present day Westwood, was nicknamed "Death Valley" for its fortification of armed guards and the compound's hazardous terrain.

Alas, he didn't buck the system for long. In 1925, he was charged with thousands of violations of the Volstead Act and was sentenced to a two-year term in Atlanta Federal Penitentiary. Even in this predicament, Remus had a stylish flair, throwing a bash in his private train coach to Georgia. In jail, he had his meals at the prison chaplain's residence, his cell was decorated with flowers and he was waited on by servants.

And that's when things got really interesting.

While serving time in Atlanta, Remus' cellmate was Franklin Dodge. Remus and Dodge got along famously. Remus confided how he was hiding his personal assets from the government: mainly, by keeping his wife, Imogene, in charge of the estate.

One problem: Dodge was an undercover FBI agent, sent to prison to investigate a corrupt warden.

But instead of relaying this information to the agency, Dodge instead resigned his post and headed to Cincinnati. There, he started an affair with Imogene Remus and helped dissolve most of the bootlegger's empire, leaving George out in the cold.

"She sold his mansion, his distilleries, all of his possessions," Hotchkiss said. "Out of all that, she left him just $100. As you can imagine, Remus was furious."

Once Remus left prison, Imogene filed for separation. On her way to the courthouse to finalize the divorce, Remus had his cab drive chase down Imogene, forcing her to abandon her vehicle in Eden Park. In front of multiple park visitors, Remus shot and killed Imogene by the Spring House Gazebo.

The ensuing trial brought national attention to Cincinnati, with the prosecution being led by Charles Phelps Taft II, son of former President William Howard Taft. Despite the testimony of numerous witnesses, Remus was found not guilty by reason of insanity.

"Remus was a lot of things, but he was also a smart man," Hotchkiss said. "He defended himself during the trial."

It helped that many in the community held Remus in a positive light, and Imogene's adultery painted Remus as the victim. Conversely, there were also charges of trial fraud, a sentiment that gained steam when Remus threw a celebration after the verdict – with all 12 jurors in attendance.

Remus' stay in the asylum was short, thanks to, well, Remus.

"He brought back Taft, using Taft's reasoning that he wasn't insane to get himself out," Hotchkiss said. "Really, it was genius."

Now free, Remus tried to restart his bootlegging venture. By then, though, the rum-running businesses was now a crowded field. Remus soon retired to Covington. Aside from owning stock in the Cincinnati Reds, the rest of his life was relatively quiet. Remus died in 1952 of natural causes at the age of 77.

Back to Gatsby: "F. Scott Fitzgerald met him by chance at a hotel in Louisville," Hotchkiss said. The writer was fascinated with this larger-than-life personality, and based the eponymous character in "The Great Gatsby" on Remus.

Remus has also been a character in the HBO series "Boardwalk Empire" and has a whiskey named in his honor.

Remus' time in the limelight was short. Yet in a period when bootleggers reigned supreme, Hotchkiss said, his star shone bright.

"There used to be a photo of Remus surrounded by the police chief, Capone and Fitzgerald, all in laughter. He truly was a character that transcends time."

If you have an idea that fits our historical/retro mold, feel free to send your proposals to jbeall@cincinna.gannett.com .