For five weeks, federal prosecutors methodically built their case that then-House Speaker Michael Madigan engaged in a yearslong conspiracy to accept bribes from Commonwealth Edison in exchange for helping the utility giant’s legislative agenda in Springfield. In some ways, it’s been the corruption trial version of a TV rerun, with the same familiar cast of characters — former legislators, precinct captains, ComEd executives and Madigan loyalists — who testified last year in the related “ComEd Four” bribery case. Now, though, the feds have raised the curtain on new material that promises to be popcorn viewing: The Danny Solis Show. Solis, the former 25th Ward alderman-turned FBI mole, took the witness stand late last week to begin what will be a fascinating dive into one of the biggest public corruption cases in Chicago’s sordid history. His testimony — which could stretch well into December — will include clandestine video recordings Solis made in face-to-face meetings with Madigan, where the longtime House leader and head of the state Democratic Party allegedly used his official influence to shake down developers for business for his private tax appeal law firm. Jurors will hear Madigan in his own words, telling Solis on a recorded call that he would go to then-Gov.-elect JB Pritzker about a lucrative state board position for Solis, allegedly as a reward for Solis bringing big-time developers to the speaker. It will also feature recorded conversations in which Madigan allegedly beseeched Solis for help in getting the speaker’s son, insurance broker Andrew Madigan, business with a Pilsen-based nonprofit group that had received millions of dollars in state funds. There could also be mention of some of the more periphery figures from the sprawling investigation, including his sister, longtime Democratic political adviser Patti Solis Doyle, Chicago attorney Brian Hynes and other politicos from lobbyist and fundraiser Victor Reyes to former U.S. Rep. Luis Gutiérrez. Solis’ testimony is the culmination of a saga that began nearly eight and a half years ago, when the FBI confronted the then-head of the powerful City Council Zoning Committee and showed him evidence they’d gathered of his own misdeeds, including surveillance images of Solis and an associate of Gutiérrez’s outside a massage parlor. The feds had been prepared that day to raid Solis’ City Hall offices. Instead, he flipped, offering what prosecutors have described as “singular” cooperation that helped bring down not only Madigan, but another Chicago political giant in former Ald. Edward M. Burke. Former House Speaker Michael Madigan leaves after attending his corruption trial at the Dirksen U.S. Courthouse, Nov. 20, 2024, in Chicago. (John J. Kim/Chicago Tribune) Lawyers for Madigan and his co-defendant, Michael McClain, meanwhile, will have plenty of ammunition to bring to what is expected to be a lengthy and grueling cross-examination. Unlike in last year’s trial of Burke, in which Solis was called as a defense witness, he’ll be subjected to a much broader line of questioning this time around, with the defense probing not only Solis’ unprecedented deferred-prosecution deal, but also episodes from the FBI’s investigation into his own misdeeds that could prove personally embarrassing. In his opening statement to the jury last month, Madigan attorney Tom Breen painted Solis as a “BS-er” with “a decrepit personal and professional life,” someone who lied to cut a sweetheart deal with the feds that not only will keep him out of prison, but also help him maintain a fat city pension. Now, it’s up to the jury to assess Solis’ credibility. And how they come down on him as a witness could be a large factor in their ultimate verdict. Madigan, 82, of Chicago, who served for decades as speaker of the Illinois House before stepping down in 2021, faces racketeering charges alleging he ran his state and political operations like a criminal enterprise. He is charged alongside McClain, 77, a former ComEd contract lobbyist from downstate Quincy, who for years was one of Madigan’s closest confidants. Both men have pleaded not guilty and denied wrongdoing. ‘What did you say they would give me?’ Jurors in Madigan’s trial have so far seen only a snippet of one of the secret videos Solis made of the speaker. It was played during Breen’s opening statement, and depicted a moment in the hallway of Madigan’s downtown law office where the speaker whispered to Solis to steer clear of the phrase “quid pro quo” in a meeting with developers. The video, which appeared to be taken from a camera hidden somewhere on Solis’ chest, was shaky and did not show Madigan’s face. But other now-public videos Solis made in the course of his more than two years as an FBI mole have shown that he was able to capture not only audio, but also quality video showing the facial expressions and other nuances of his targets. One such video was used in the prosecution of Roberto Caldero, one of Gutiérrez’s longest-serving aides, who was allegedly supplying Solis with erectile dysfunction pills and arranging for sexual services for him at massage parlors, all while he was lobbying Solis on a variety of issues. In October 2016, four months after the FBI had confronted him, Solis was wearing a hidden camera during a meeting with Caldero at the back of a coffee shop, where they talked about a potential financial windfall involving a massive $1 billion Chicago Public Schools janitorial services contract. Caldero told Solis he needed his help convincing other aldermen and then-Mayor Rahm Emanuel to steer the contract to a company that had hired Caldero as a consultant. “So what did you say they would give me?” Solis asked at their table by the men’s room. Caldero silently held up both hands and spread his fingers — an attempt to avoid saying the $10,000 bribe amount out loud. “OK,” Solis replied. “But you’ve been saying that a lot.” Caldero wound up pleading guilty to wire fraud charges stemming from his effort to influence the CPS contract, as well as a separate scheme to use Solis’ clout to get a park and street renamed for relatives of a campaign donor. He was sentenced last year to nearly five years in prison. Solis’ recordings also were front and center in last year’s trial of Burke, who was convicted of an array of schemes to use his public office to enrich himself. While much of the evidence was dry, the videos Solis made provided a rare fly-on-the-wall view of Burke, who behind closed doors carried himself with swagger and the occasional smirk. In front of potential clients for his private law firm, he was smooth and solicitous, the videos showed. “As far as Amtrak is concerned, put it in the back of your mind,” Burke told developers of the heavyweight old main post office property in October 2016. As Solis’ camera pointed alternately at the wall and at Burke’s hands, Burke explained that a good friend of his was on the Amtrak board. “We made his daughter a judge here in Cook County,” he said. In later meetings, Solis’ camera captured not only Burke’s unfiltered words but also his body and face. In one, Burke shrugged as he said, “If we’re not signed up, I’m not going to do any lifting for this guy.” Burke wore a smirk when he later said, “the cash register has not rung yet.” And, after months of being stonewalled, Burke sat in Solis’ office with his legs crossed, calmly remarking that “as far as I’m concerned (the developers) can go (expletive) themselves.” ‘I know what I’ve done’ Just before Thanksgiving 2018, in the calm before the Burke and Madigan investigations became public, Solis announced he would not seek reelection to the City Council the next year, saying he wanted to focus more on his family. “I have no regrets. I think I did my part. I made a difference,” Solis told the Tribune on Nov. 24, 2018. “Some people will agree with me on that, some people won’t, but in my heart I know what I’ve done. I’m happy about it.” Five days later, FBI agents raided Burke’s City Hall office suite, putting butcher paper over the windows and hauling out computers and other evidence in what was the first public indication of the sweeping corruption probe. But Solis’ secret cooperation against Madigan continued. In fact, an FBI agent testified on Thursday that they recorded a call between Solis and Madigan in early December 2018, more than a week after the Burke raids. It wasn’t until late January 2019 that the Sun-Times reported in a series of articles that Solis had been wearing a wire on Burke, putting an abrupt end to Solis’ undercover work, according to testimony. Former lobbyist Michael McClain arrives at the Dirksen U.S. Courthouse, Nov. 19, 2024. (Antonio Perez/Chicago Tribune) On Thursday, jurors saw an email sent by McClain to a Madigan aide on Jan. 24, 2019, linking to one article and saying, “You may want him to look at the second (to) last paragraph.” That paragraph mentioned items the FBI had seized from Burke’s Finance Committee offices, including records on Hynes and the old main post office development, which both Burke and Madigan were eyeing as a cash cow for their law firms, court records show. “Had Mr. Solis’ cover effectively been blown by the newspaper articles?” Assistant U.S. Attorney Amarjeet Bhachu asked FBI Special Agent Ryan McDonald. “Yes,” McDonald replied. The revelations about Solis were never supposed to be public, but a 120-page search warrant affidavit filed by the U.S. attorney’s office before Solis was confronted in 2016 was inadvertently left unsealed by the court clerk’s office, providing detailed insight into everything and everyone the feds were looking into as part of the probe. In addition to Solis’ alleged dalliances at massage parlors, the bombshell affidavit alleged that in his role as the head of the Zoning Committee, Solis directed a legislative aide to keep a running list of those he sought campaign contributions from, along with what official action each contributor wanted from him. The document also laid out Solis’ financial difficulties — including the foreclosure of his home — at the time the FBI was listening in on his phone calls. Solis allegedly had borrowed from friends, developers and his campaign fund, including $15,000 he used in 2012 to pay off an Internal Revenue Service debt. On Thursday, McDonald testified that when Solis was confronted, he asked to speak to a lawyer and texted his friend, Hynes, for advice on whom to call. Meanwhile, he consented to a search of his phone and houses, but the FBI aborted raids on other, more public locations, such as his City Hall and ward offices, to keep his cooperation secret, McDonald said. When Solis was eventually outed, the news hit the City Council like an earthquake. While some aldermen cited it as evidence of the need for reform, others expressed betrayal and shock. “Where I come from, if you wear a wire someone’s going to kick your ass,” said Ald. Matt O’Shea, 19th. Then-Ald. Carrie Austin, 34th, told reporters she didn’t want to talk about Solis “because I might cry … You don’t do that, you just don’t.” Austin was indicted on federal fraud charges two years later in an investigation unrelated to Solis’ cooperation. Witness for the defense While Solis’ extraordinary cooperation was at the center of the case against Burke, prosecutors opted not to call Solis to the stand, perhaps as part of a legal strategy to shield him as Madigan’s trial was still looming. Instead, Solis was called as a Hail Mary by Burke’s lawyers, who for three hours grilled him about his motivations and tried to dirty him up. U.S. District Judge Virginia Kendall’s courtroom was packed for Solis’ testimony, with some of his former City Council colleagues in the gallery, along with high-powered attorneys who dropped in from other courtrooms. Among the spectators was Breen, one of the attorneys representing Madigan. In his questioning, Burke attorney Chris Gair leaned hard on the deferred prosecution deal Solis received from the U.S. attorney’s office in return for his cooperation. Under the terms of the deal, Solis was charged with a single count of bribery and admitted in court that he took campaign cash from developers with business before his committee. But as long as Solis testifies truthfully, the U.S. attorney’s office will drop the charge against him next year, leaving him with a clean record. “This was not out of some public spirit on your part, correct?” Gair asked. “I don’t know what you mean by ‘public spirit,’ ” Solis replied. Gair responded with venom: “I know you don’t know what I mean by ‘public spirit,’ sir.” When Gair’s questioning was finished, all eyes were on prosecutors for their cross-examination. But instead, Assistant U.S. Attorney Diane MacArthur said, “Your honor, the government has no questions.” In the end, Burke was convicted on all but one count of his sweeping indictment. And a juror interviewed by the Tribune after the verdict said that Solis’ testimony was “pretty much irrelevant” — the recordings and exhibits were the important part, the juror said. Burke, 80, was sentenced in June to two years in prison. He’s serving his time at a federal facility about 130 miles west of Chicago, records show. He is slated for release in June 2026. In contrast to Burke, many of the transcripts released so far depicting the conversations with Madigan appear to show the speaker as predictably polished — and cautious. In July 2017, three weeks after Solis brought up the idea of a “quid pro quo” in a phone call about a West Loop project called Union West, the speaker approached Solis privately before a meeting at his law offices with the developers. “Over the phone, you made a comment that there was a quid pro quo,” Madigan said, according to the portion played in opening statements. “Oh, I’m sorry. Yeah,” Solis said. “You shouldn’t be talking like that,” Madigan allegedly responded. “You’re just recommending our law firm because if they don’t get a good result on their real estate taxes, the whole project will be in trouble.” “Absolutely, absolutely,” Solis said, “Yeah.” With Solis agreeing, Madigan went on: “Which is not good for your ward … So you want high-quality representation.” “Right. Right,” Solis said. Once the meeting started, there was no mention of any quid pro quo. Just Madigan telling the developers they would like to talk about representing them on real estate tax issues. “And at that point I bow out and he (Madigan’s law partner) takes over,” the speaker said, handing the floor over to Vincent “Bud” Getzendanner to give the firm’s official spiel. Two months later, Solis received a call from Madigan and asked whether the developers had hired his law firm. “Ah, Danny,” Madigan responded. “I’m almost positive the answer is yes.” [email protected] [email protected]