The Queen

May 27, 2019
When Ronald Reagan campaigned for the presidency, he referred frequently to a Chicago woman who “used eighty names, thirty addresses, and twelve Social Security cards to collect all kinds of public benefits.” Reagan made that woman a symbol for “a whole class of people who were getting something they didn’t deserve” as part of his assault on the welfare state. Slate editorial director Levin’s dogged investigative work in his impressive debut reveals the truth behind Reagan’s claims, presenting the stranger-than-fiction story of that woman, who called herself Linda Taylor (among numerous other names). Taylor stole more than $150,000 in public assistance in one year, and had planned to “open a medical office, posing as a doctor.” Levin makes the complex narrative accessible by using an indefatigable Chicago police detective, Jack Sherwin, as his initial protagonist. In 1974, Sherwin responded to a bogus burglary complaint filed by Taylor, who alleged that the criminal had somehow managed to shove a jumbo fridge through a very small window. Sherwin’s probe into the suspicious “victim” revealed that Taylor was a recidivist scam artist. Levin uncovers more criminality in Taylor’s history—including child abuse, abduction, and a possible murder—spanning a half-century beginning in 1944. Levin’s piecing together of interviews, court documents, and other records paint as complete a picture as possible of an unrepentant career criminal who was turned into a stereotype for political purposes. Those interested in U.S. urban culture of another era will also be intrigued. Agent: Alia Habib, The Gernert Co.

Starred review from June 1, 2019

The stereotype of the "welfare queen" came about in the 1970s in large part owing to one Linda Taylor, who caught the attention of the press when it was discovered that she had swindled thousands from public aid over the course of several years. Taylor lived under multiple aliases, had multiple addresses and cars, and was regularly seen wearing furs and expensive jewelry. Slate editor Levin pieces together the history of Taylor's life, first focusing on her welfare fraud case. Taylor's numerous lies and identities, combined with a corrupt, inept public aid system allowed her to go unnoticed for years. In the second half, Levin attempts to solve the question of Taylor's true identity, tracking her across the country over the course of her life, through countless cons. VERDICT While the stereotype of the welfare queen still remains, few know its origins. This is a highly recommended, fascinating examination of a prolific con artist, who by the end of her life may not have been able to distinguish between reality and her own lies.--Melissa Stoeger, Deerfield P.L., IL

Copyright 2019 Library Journal, LLC Used with permission.

Starred review from April 15, 2019
Levin, the national editor of Slate, writes a stunning account of Linda Taylor, the woman famously tagged as a welfare queen in the 1970s. His powerful work of narrative nonfiction shows how Taylor victimized a slew of vulnerable people, was a victim herself, and was the cause of Black welfare recipients being stereotyped as welfare cheats. Levin's treatment goes far beyond true crime here, though that aspect is an immense story itself, including the fact that three elderly and disabled people died in suspicious circumstances under Taylor's care; that Taylor was adept at posing as a victim, calling in at least two false burglary reports; and that she concocted elaborate money-fraud schemes. Beyond the story of Taylor's wrongdoing, though, Levin demonstrates how a single distortion can ruin lives. Ronald Reagan, in a speech in 1976 about welfare fraud, called out Taylor as a woman who created numerous aliases to steal government checks. That reference, Levin believes, caused lasting damage to Black people as Reagan implied that Taylor was an example of how African Americans in general were welfare cheats. Levin does a terrific job of balancing his portrait of a criminal, of the racism of police who didn't bother to solve the three murders connected to Taylor, and of the widespread stereotyping of Blacks that grew out of her crimes and a president's distortions.(Reprinted with permission of Booklist, copyright 2019, American Library Association.)

Starred review from April 15, 2019
Slate editorial director Levin examines the Ronald Reagan-era political trope about welfare queens in its most extreme case. Linda Taylor made a big mistake when, in 1974, she called Chicago police to report a burglary with a "weird list" of items taken: a refrigerator, a stove, elephant figurines, stereo speakers, and "thousands of dollars' worth of household furnishings." The investigating detective thought the list weird, too; in his ensuing investigation, he discovered that Taylor, who went by many names and, as a person who could pass as black, white, Jewish, Native American, and Hispanic and who seemed to be ageless, had proven to be a master of impersonation. Her skillful gaming of the welfare system had netted her a handsome income, complete with fur coats and buckets of jewelry--and then there was insurance fraud, bigamy, and a host of other crimes, including, perhaps, more than one murder. Taylor went to prison and was essentially forgotten, dying of a heart attack in 2002. She lived on as a caricature, however. On the presidential campaign trail, Reagan referred to "welfare queens" who bilked the government categorically. Levin nimbly explores Taylor's life in a story that becomes more complex the more it's revealed. The tale encompasses an astonishingly prolific criminal career as well as issues of race ("a light complexion could, in certain circumstances, allow a biracial person in the Deep South to travel between two very different worlds"), mental illness, and self-invention, to say nothing of politics and the essentialism that Reagan commonly practiced, distilling people into categories and making an instance of malfeasance into a pattern of behavior. As the author shows in this excellent piece of true-crime writing, Taylor's case is entirely rare, but the potent political symbolism it inspired certainly did no favors to those who truly needed welfare assistance in the years since. In the end, a politician's reductive sloganeering finds some support here but is ultimately found wanting. A top-notch study of an exceedingly odd moment in history.

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