Showing posts with label Dennis Griffin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dennis Griffin. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

"What makes these guys become mobsters?" Part II




by Dennis Griffin

I write books about organized crime. Invariably, when I give a talk one of the questions from the audience is, "What makes these guys become mobsters?" I don't have a "one size fits all" answer. But there is a rather common scenario I've come across over the years that may explain why at least some young men turn to a life of crime. And I think the case of Andrew DiDonato is a good example.

Andrew was influenced by his environment and neighborhood wiseguys as a young boy, and took to thievery before reaching his teens. In 1980 the teenager became an associate of the Gambino crime family and lived "the life" until he flipped and became a government witness in 1997.

In 2010, I agreed to write Andrew's biography titled Surviving The Mob. I believe by sharing some of Andrew's story here, readers may come away with a better understanding of the circumstances that contribute to the making of a criminal. To read Part I click here




Making Connections 

Andrew was an ambitious young man and had made a commitment to advance his criminal career. He even dropped out of school to allow himself more time on the streets. However, before he was able to fully implement his bold plans, an event took place that had unintended consequences. Although it resulted in his first arrest, it also brought him to the attention of Gambino family crew boss Nicky Corozzo, and catapulted him from an unaffiliated street tough into the world of organized crime.

It started in November 1982 when Andrew and a friend learned that a couple of neighborhood boys working in a bagel shop at East 81st Street and Flatlands Avenue were stealing money from the place on a regular basis. They saw this as an opportunity to make some easy cash.

“My buddy Tommy and I hung out in a park across the street from the bagel shop. Tommy found out these two guys that usually worked the night shift there were taking between a thousand and fifteen hundred a week out of the joint. A couple of brothers in their late twenties owned the place. They had very poor habits when it came to supervising their employees. They weren’t around that much, especially at night. These guys they had working the night shift made the bagels, served customers and ran the place pretty much on their own. That included handling the cash register. They took advantage of the situation by pocketing a lot of the money for themselves. Both of these guys were in their late teens. And the word was that they had serious gambling problems and needed the money to pay off their gambling debts.

“Tommy and I figured we might as well cut ourselves in on the action. We told them we wanted four or five hundred a week or else. They said okay and didn’t resist at all. They started making their payments right away with no problem.

“But the first sign of trouble came quick. This neighborhood guy named Mike Yannotti had a talk with Tommy and me. Mike…who was known on the streets as Mikey Y … was a couple years older than us and was already connected with Nicky Corozzo’s crew. He had a reputation as a tough guy and he was. In fact, I met a lot of dangerous guys over the years, and in my opinion Mikey Y was the most dangerous of them all.

“Anyway, Mikey said that the bagel shop guys we were shaking down owed Nicky Corozzo a lot of money from gambling. If we continued making them pay us they couldn’t pay him too. We had to back off.

“After that conversation Tommy and I had to make a decision. We were a little pissed off that we were being told to stop the shakedown without being offered some other way to replace that income. We said to hell with Nicky Corozzo, we weren’t going to back down. That decision would probably have led to another less friendly visit from Mikey. But something else happened first.

“A couple of weeks later one of our victims got caught by the owners of the bagel shop with his hand in the register. He told his boss that Tommy and I had forced him into stealing the money and giving it to us. The owners called the cops and then headed across the street to the park to confront Tommy and me.

“At that time we carried brass knuckles. When the brothers grabbed us the knuckles came out and the fight was on. We beat one of them up pretty good. I think he ended up needing about a hundred stitches in his head. During the heat of things somebody grabbed me from behind and spun me around. It was a cop. Tommy and I threw the brass knuckles, but the cops found one set of them. We were arrested, taken to the station and charged with assault. We were never charged or even questioned about the extortion scheme.

“I hired a lawyer. He told me that still being a minor would work in my favor. And he could argue that the owners initiated the fight by coming to the park looking for Tommy and me to give us a beating. We could press assault charges against them and probably end up getting a draw, with all charges being dropped. And that’s exactly what happened. Everybody walked away clean.

“After that I started spending more time with Mikey Y and some other guys in Corozzo’s crew. Even though I wasn’t really part of them yet, we did a lot of stealing and some other things. Everything we did made money and some of it went to Nicky.

“A couple of months later…in early 1983…I got to meet Nicky in person. Back then Nicky hadn’t been made an official capo yet. He was an acting capo. Nicky and his friend Leonard DiMaria ran the crew together, kind of like co-captains. I already knew Lenny quite well. I had taken his daughter to the high school prom and I hung around with his nephew. But I’d never met Nicky before.

“They used to hold meetings at a private social club every Tuesday and Saturday. The meetings started around eleven in the morning and went until four or five in the afternoon. The crew members and others they did business with would be there. Food and drinks were available.

“On this one Saturday morning I was riding in a car with some of the crew. I knew they had to go to the meeting so I told them to drop me off and I’d see 'em later. One of the guys said he wanted me to go with them. Another said that Nicky had mentioned just the previous night that they should bring me along. So I went.

“When we got to the club I was introduced around. Everybody socialized while Nicky conducted business in another room. He did that by calling in the people he needed to talk with one at a time. In private he’d tell them what he wanted done and they’d have a chance to let him know if they needed something from him. If he had a job that involved more than one guy or the entire crew, he’d call them all in at once.

“On this particular day Nicky approached me around mid-afternoon and took me into the other room. He said he’d heard a lot about me and knew I was acquainted with his nephews. I was doing some good things. ‘You’ve got a friend here,’ he said.

“And then he told me that if I ever needed anything to come to him. If I needed stolen merchandise disposed of, come to him. If somebody was giving me trouble, come to him. Whatever I needed, come to him.

“After that he told me about the Tuesday and Saturday meetings. I’ll never forget what he said. ‘These meetings are important. You’ll meet a lot of people and make a lot of friends. Some of them may need your help sometime. Think of it as going to school. You’ll learn valuable lessons here so don’t miss. If you miss you’re not being a good friend.’

“When I left the social club that day I was officially part of Nicky’s crew. I was an associate of the Gambino organized crime family.”


Dennis Griffin is a True Crime Author, Co-Host of Crime Wire and We Know a Guy on the Inside Lenz Network.  He has written several books concentrating on the history of the mob presence in Las Vegas. www.dennisngriffin.com

Saturday, January 26, 2013

"What makes these guys become mobsters?" Part I


by Dennis Griffin

I write books about organized crime. Invariably, when I give a talk one of the questions from the audience is, "What makes these guys become mobsters?" I don't have a "one size fits all" answer. But there is a rather common scenario I've come across over the years that may explain why at least some young men turn to a life of crime. And I think the case of Andrew DiDonato is a good example.

Andrew was influenced by his environment and neighborhood wiseguys as a young boy, and took to thievery before reaching his teens. In 1980 the teenager became an associate of the Gambino crime family and lived "the life" until he flipped and became a government witness in 1997.

In 2010, I agreed to write Andrew's biography titled Surviving The Mob. I believe by sharing some of Andrew's story here, readers may come away with a better understanding of the circumstances that contribute to the making of a criminal.


Learning the Trade

In 1980, Andrew DiDonato was living with his mother and step-father on East 55th Street in Brooklyn. At that time the minimum wage in the United States was $3.10 per hour. Assuming a 14 or 15-year-old boy like Andrew could get a job flipping burgers 20 hours a week after school, he’d gross $62 for his labor. Although Andrew worked when he wasn’t in school, he didn’t toil in a hamburger stand or anything similar. He did his work on the streets; and made substantially more than a minimum wage worker. In fact, his weekly income was sometimes in the neighborhood of $1,400 cash. How did a kid his age generate that kind of money? As Andrew explains, it took hard work and nerve.
“I had two main sources of making money in those days. I stole and sold parts like wheels, tires and radios, from expensive cars. And I shook down the kids selling marijuana in the neighborhood. I told them they’d either pay me a couple hundred bucks a week or I’d break their head.”

But Andrew knew that if you wanted to be respected on the sidewalks of Brooklyn you couldn’t just talk the talk. Out there actions truly spoke louder than words; and verbal threats alone weren’t enough to prove you were a person to be reckoned with. That was a lesson of the streets Andrew learned early. And he learned it well.

“My family was Mob-connected. My uncle Paddy Macchiarole was a capo in the Genovese family. I was twelve when he was murdered in a Mob hit. A few months later his son Johnny Boy was also murdered. The killings of my uncle and cousin devastated my family. It was the first taste of the reality of how brutal that life can be. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, it was a lesson that ultimately saved my life many years later.”

Andrew’s own capacity for violence became obvious as he advanced his extortion plans.

“When I started shaking down the drug dealers I began with an act of violence, like a severe beating or a few shots with a baseball bat. I let them know there was worse to come if my demands weren’t met.”

Andrew wasn’t a physically imposing figure. He stood three inches or so under six feet and weighed around 160 pounds. He was thin and athletic. Some of the dealers he wanted to move in on were bigger than he was. And some were as tough, or maybe even tougher. But that didn’t deter him. To overcome deficiencies in size or strength he used the element of surprise to get the upper hand on his victim.

“I’d sneak up behind the guy and whack him with a ball bat. When he went down I’d hit him again to make my point. They knew then I had something most of them didn’t. I had the balls to do whatever it took to impose my will. So it really didn’t matter if they were bigger than me. They knew if they fucked around with me I’d get 'em with my fists, or a bat, or a tire iron. And they’d never even know it was coming. They were afraid of me, and that’s the way I wanted it.”



Did Andrew ever feel guilty about the beatings he administered?

“You gotta remember I knew most of these dealers from school or the neighborhood. Some of them I didn’t like and enjoyed beating them up. But I wasn’t just a bully. I was liked in the neighborhood and gave respect to those who deserved it. This was business though, and I had to rough up the ones I liked too. I was making a statement that if you were in the drug game I wasn’t playing favorites.”

Andrew’s tactics worked. In addition to the dealers falling into line, word circulated that there was a new kid out there who needed to be taken seriously. In fairly short order he had most of the young drug dealers in Bergen Beach paying him a street tax.

Extorting drug dealers was primarily a one-man operation for Andrew. But when stealing car parts he often worked with other neighborhood youths.

“Some of the kids I stole with were already associated with organized crime crews. And several more of us got involved later. I made many good friends back then and I thought we’d be friends for life. But shit happens, and in some cases it didn’t work out that way. And some of those I was closest with died before their time.”

In those early days Andrew and his buddies weren’t proficient at stealing whole cars. Instead they robbed parts such as radios, tires and wheels from expensive vehicles that could be sold for good money.

“Mercedes Benz used Becker digital radios. They were a hot item. We’d smash in a window, rip out the radio and run. My next door neighbor Rocco Corozzo [nephew of Gambino capo and Andrew’s future boss Nicholas Corozzo] had a buyer for the radios. The guy would take all we could get him and pay us between a hundred fifty and two hundred a set. We didn’t have a steady buyer for the tires and wheels, so it took a little more time to move the stuff.

“We were having fun and the guys in the street crews left us alone. We were just kids and they didn’t make us kick anything in to them. Whatever we made was ours. It was all coming in and nothing had to be paid out.”

But even criminals like Andrew can experience economic tough times. In the case of him and his friends, youth, inexperience and greed were contributing factors, as well as unanticipated business interruptions.

“Sometimes when we had a lot of money in our pockets we’d get a little lazy. We’d stop stealing for a while and blow what we had buying stuff and partying. We were young and weren’t thinking about saving or retirement. When we realized we were almost out of cash we’d get off our asses and go back to work.

“I even screwed myself by taking so much from the dealers I was shaking down that I put some of them out of business. By the time they made their payment to me and bought product they weren’t making enough profit to stay in business. When one of 'em went away it might be a few weeks before someone stepped in to take his place and I could get to the new guy to explain the cost of doing business.

“And then there were supply interruptions sometimes. When the dealers didn’t have anything to sell they weren’t making any money and they weren’t paying me. Depending on the reason for the interruption it could last days or weeks. That meant I had to steal more to get through the dry times.

“But I learned a lot and knew I needed to make some changes. I had to work smarter and expand my criminal activities to make more money. Instead of shaking down the dealers for money I’d start shaking them down for product and set up my own network of dealers. And instead of just stealing parts off a car I’d take the whole thing. I wanted to get into the chop shop business and start making some real money.”



Dennis Griffin is a True Crime Author, Co-Host of Crime Wire and We Know a Guy on the Inside Lenz Network.  He has written several books concentrating on the history of the mob presence in Las Vegas. www.dennisngriffin.com
  

Monday, December 17, 2012

Tarnished Badges in Las Vegas





by Dennis Griffin

The law-enforcement agencies tasked with ridding Las Vegas of the corruption of organized crime in the 1970s and into the ‘80s had to clean up their own houses before taking on the mobsters. The Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department had been rocked by a scandal involving detectives providing information to the bad guys. And the FBI had image problems of its own.

Starting in the late 1960s, the word within federal law enforcement circles was that agents working out of the FBI’s Las Vegas office were “freeloading” all over town. They were reportedly receiving free meals and drinks from the very individuals and casinos they were supposed to be investigating or keeping an eye on.

Richard Crane, head of the federal organized-crime strike force in Southern California and Nevada from 1970 to 1975, knew that this conduct, if true, had to be confronted and rectified. Crane complained to Justice Department officials in Washington and an inspection team was sent to Las Vegas to find out what was going on. After a couple of weeks the inspectors left, having supposedly chastised the offending agents. Crane was satisfied — until he began receiving word that the inspection team itself had taken advantage of the available comps! He heard reports that the investigators had enjoyed their stay and left without accomplishing anything; meanwhile, the agents assigned locally were continuing to take advantage of casino largesse. An Internal Revenue Service agent Crane trusted confirmed the allegations. Crane again complained to Washington, but when he left government service in 1975, the problems in Las Vegas continued unchecked.

Jack Keith, agent in charge of the Vegas office from 1974 until 1977, discussed the situation with a Los Angeles Times reporter after his retirement. “The precedent was set by one of the first agents in charge in Las Vegas. When he ate at a casino, he never even signed the check. He just got up and left.”

Keith offered an explanation of why things got out of hand. “The town was a cesspool. The atmosphere permeated everything. The old-timers were part of it and didn’t even know it. No man should have been allowed to stay in that town for more than three years. Some of the agents had been there for ten or fifteen years. I told them there was no such thing as a free lunch and that some day they’d have to pay for it.”

But allegations of taking a few meals or seeing some free shows weren’t the end of it, things got worse. When the Dunes and later the Aladdin were wiretapped, the men being taped were content to discuss golf, the weather, and women. Some of the agents working the taps believed that the lack of productivity was due to leaks originating from other agents. Similar to the situation the police found themselves in, other FBI field offices became reluctant to share information with their Vegas colleagues.

Another complaint to Washington resulted in yet another inspection team being sent to Sin City in June 1977. This time the investigators weren’t compromised. Within a few months, a dozen local agents were censured, reassigned, or opted for early retirement. This housecleaning set the stage for the investigative successes that would eventually bring down the Mob in Sin City.



Dennis Griffin is a True Crime Author, Co-Host of Crime Wire and We Know a Guy on the Inside Lenz Network.  He has written several books concentrating on the history of the mob presence in Las Vegas. www.dennisngriffin.com
  

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

The Sting





by Dennis Griffin

Frank Cullotta was a career criminal. Born in Chicago in 1938, he learned the way of the streets as a teenager. And while shining shoes on Grand Avenue he met another tough kid: Tony Spilotro. The pair soon became friends and criminal accomplices.

Following is Frank's account of a failed attempt to bilk a Florida man out of a large amount of money in early 1979. It was a caper that subsequently led to a murder and helped to bring about the downfall of the Chicago Outfit's control over Las Vegas.


The Sting 


Frank was in the Jubilation lounge one night when he was introduced to Sherwin “Jerry” Lisner, known in the Las Vegas underworld as a scam artist. He disliked Lisner from the start. In his opinion, Lisner was a flamboyant braggart, and a scheming little weasel. To Frank, Lisner wasn’t a real crook, only a wannabe. Personal feelings aside, he kept an open mind regarding possible future business deals.

Lisner contacted Frank later and asked him to come in on a scam he wanted to work on a man in Florida. “This guy’s got a lot of money,” Lisner said. “I’m sure we can take him in a money- laundering deal.”

Frank was curious. “What kind of money are we talking?”

“I think we can get a hundred and seventy-five thousand out of him.”

“How? How are you going to do it?”

“Here’s the setup. I’ll tell him I’ve got some money, about four hundred thousand, that I want to wash, because the serial numbers are in sequence. I’ll say I’m willing to swap my cash for a hundred and seventy-five thousand in clean money. Once the guy bites, we’ll pull the scam. I know how to do it, and I’ve got a brother-in-law that’s a cop in Washington, D.C. who’ll work with us.”

Frank digested the information for a few moments. “How do I fit in?”

“You’d help me set it up and then come with me to D. C. to exchange the money. We’ll fix up an attaché case with a row of hundred dollar bills on top of stacks of singles. You give the guy a quick peek in the case and it will look like it holds a lot more money than it does. You’ll swap cases and we’ll leave with the hundred and seventy-five grand. As the other guy is walking away with the case he got from us, my brother-in-law will arrest him. He’ll confiscate the money and then turn him loose. The victim will be thankful he didn’t go to jail. We end up with both cases and the sucker will never even realize what happened. We’ll all be clean.”

Frank liked Lisner’s idea to prepare a case of flash money to deceive the victim. He doubted Lisner had $400,000 to put up for show; he certainly didn’t. And even if he’d had that kind of cash, he wouldn’t have put it at risk. Setting up the dummy case was the only way to go. Frank knew from experience that things didn’t always go as planned. If an honest cop, or a crooked cop not in on the deal, somehow ended up in possession of the bait case, all the money in it would be lost. In a situation like this, if the target insisted on counting the money before switching cases, the best thing would be to simply rob him. But questions remained. “I still don’t see what you need me for. Why not just do it yourself?”

“This guy in Florida is slightly connected and I know you’re with Tony Spilotro. Having you involved will give me some credibility and make it more likely he’ll go for the deal.”

“What makes you think I’m tied in with Tony?”

“That’s what I hear.”

Frank decided to stall. “Let me think it over and I’ll get back to you.”

Frank went to Tony and told him Lisner’s pitch. “Sounds a little corny, doesn’t it?” Tony said. “On the other hand, some people are so greedy they’d go for a deal like that. But us? As much as I love money, we’re a little sharper than them guys. We wouldn’t go for a deal like that. We’d know right away this guy was trying to fuck us. Here’s what I want you to do. Go back and tell him you thought it over and it sounds like a good idea. Whatever you do, don’t tell him you talked with me about it. Tell him you want seventy-five thousand dollars, because you have to take care of your people. He can have the hundred and take care of his people. If he don’t want to go for that, tell him to go fuck himself.”

Frank got back to Lisner and told him he was in. He then explained the money situation. Lisner put up an argument initially, but backed off. He said the target, also named Jerry, planned to come to town in a couple of days and would be staying at Caesars Palace. “Why don’t we meet in his room and work out the details?” Lisner suggested.

“I’m going to pass on that. You never know when a room might be bugged.”

“Yeah, I hadn’t thought of that. How about the Jubilation?”

“That sounds better. We’ll meet there.”

Florida Jerry was a New York–Florida guy, the kind that talked out of the side of his mouth. He asked Frank where the $400,000 he wanted to exchange came from. “I can’t tell you,” Frank said. “But it hasn’t been reported as missing yet, so I want to move it as soon as I can. If you want to make the deal, fine. If not, we’ll find somebody else.”

“I’ll have to talk this over with my father and get back to you,” Florida Jerry said. “I’ll let Lisner know what we decide.”

“Do what you gotta do. But I want to get this done within a week,” Frank said.

Florida Jerry agreed to the proposal and the next week Lisner and Frank were in D. C. They stayed at a big hotel for almost $300 a night waiting for Florida Jerry to arrive. On the second day there, Lisner called Florida to find out what was going on. Florida Jerry was apparently having second thoughts. He gave Lisner the run-around, wanting to put up less money. Lisner went back and forth with him. Frank finally told Lisner, “Tell him we’ll do it the way he wants. We’re not going to give him any money anyway, so what difference does it make?”

Even after they agreed to his terms, Florida Jerry still wouldn’t go for the deal. Frank got him on the phone and told him to go fuck himself, then he and Lisner flew back to Vegas.

Frank wasn’t happy and Lisner must have sensed it. While they were on the plane Lisner cried on his shoulder. “I’m real sorry about this thing blowing up on us. I thought for sure we had him.”

Frank masked his anger. “Time is money and we blew a lot of both. But shit happens, so forget about it.”

“I’ll tell you what, I’ve got a Quaalude deal in the works. I can cut you in on that and you’ll at least get your money back.”

“I don’t handle drugs,” Frank said.

Lisner persisted, “There are a lot of outs for them and you won’t have to touch them yourself. I’ll get you five thousand Quaaludes for five grand. You’ll be able to sell them for ten, doubling your money.”

That sounded good to Frank, so he said okay. The next day he had the Quaaludes and told Tony about them. “Get rid of them fuckin’ things quick. I don’t want any drugs around,” Tony said.

Frank sold the Quaaludes to a local kid for $10,000, gave Tony half, and kept the other half for himself. Because Frank had no use for Lisner and didn’t consider him to be a business partner, he decided to stiff him. He told Lisner he'd had to dump the drugs because the cops were on him. Lisner probably didn’t believe him, and resented not getting paid. But there wasn’t much he could do about it, at least not then.

Next: The murder of Jerry Lisner. 





Dennis Griffin is a True Crime Author, Co-Host of Crime Wire and Real Wiseguys on Inside Lenz Network.  He has written several books concentrating on the history of the mob presence in Las Vegas. www.dennisngriffin.com
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Thursday, April 5, 2012

Takeover in Las Vegas




By Dennis N. Griffin 

Sometimes people find themselves in situations that require them to place themselves in harm's way in order to assist their fellow man. Las Vegas, Nevada, newsman Robert Stoldal found himself in that situation in August 1979. When asked, he answered the call.


The Story

At approximately nine o’clock on the morning of Saturday, August 25, 1979, inmates took control of the Clark County, Nevada, Jail Annex, located on the second floor of the Las Vegas City Hall complex on Stewart Avenue. This would be the longest siege ever handled by the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. It was an incident that had all the ingredients of a Hollywood action movie: hardcore cons facing long sentences with little to lose; security equipment not working; procedures not followed and escape within the grasp of the inmates, although they didn’t know it. A future sheriff, Jerry Keller, a sergeant at the time, was the primary negotiator for the police side.

At that time, the Annex was used primarily to house sentenced prisoners—mostly felons awaiting transfer to the state prison system in Carson City. On this particular day, 84 inmates were assigned to the facility. Among them were Patrick McKenna, Felix Lorenzo, and Eugene Shaw. McKenna and Lorenzo had recently been transferred to the Annex after having been implicated in a plot to start a riot at the Clark County Detention Center.

McKenna was a 33-year-old white male with a long history of problems with the law. An escape artist and convicted rapist, he was serving three life sentences plus 75 years for sexually assaulting two women in Las Vegas in 1978. He was also facing a murder charge for killing his cellmate while housed in the Clark County Detention Center.

Lorenzo, a Latino, was 30 years old at the time. He’d been sentenced to 160 years in prison for numerous armed robberies. He’d taken hostages during his capers, and on one occasion held an off-duty Metro officer captive for a short period of time. He was no stranger to prison strife, having been incarcerated at the Attica Correctional Facility in New York State during the infamous riot in 1971.

Shaw, a 41-year-old black male, was another convicted armed robber, doing a 60-year sentence.

What these convicts did that morning was no spur of the moment act. On the contrary, it was a well-planned escape attempt devised after a careful study of guard activities and jail procedures. The plot included paying an inmate trustee to leave a security gate ajar that led to the gun lockers where correction officers stored their service weapons. The warning light that would have alerted the guard in the Control Booth of the open door had been out of service for some time due to a mechanical malfunction. Whether this was known by the prisoners or a matter of pure luck is unclear.

In addition to these three prisoners, the three correction officers on duty that day would play major roles in the incident as hostages. David Murray, age 35, Robert Hansen, 52, and William Melton, also 52, were all veteran officers with many years of experience.

At a few minutes after nine that morning, Eugene Shaw completed mopping the floor of the cellblock in which he, Lorenzo, and McKenna were housed. Officer Hansen was observing Shaw through the glass panel of the cellblock’s locked security door. The officer later said that he’d never seen any of the inmates in that particular block work so hard.

Another door allowing access to the hallway outside the cellblock door was unlocked and open. Although contrary to policy and procedure, this door was apparently routinely left unsecured.

Inmate Shaw advised Hansen that he had finished his work and the cleaning materials could be removed from the cellblock. He pushed the nearly full mop pail toward the security door.

Hansen opened the door without first locking the inmates in their cells. He then bent over to grab the heavy bucket and lift it over the raised threshold. As he did, Shaw said, “Here, that’s heavy; let me give you a hand.”

Using this ruse, Shaw approached the stooped-over guard and struck him on the back of the neck. Before he fell, Hansen was able to reach up and activate an alarm button in a control panel next to the door.

Inmate Lorenzo, who had been in the cellblock’s day room, joined Shaw and finished overpowering Hansen, beating the officer until he was nearly unconscious. Correction Officer Murray, responding to the alarm, was also taken hostage.

Lorenzo removed the key to the gun locker from Hansen’s pocket and exited the cellblock. Crouching low to avoid detection by the security cameras, he arrived at the gun-locker gate, which the trustee accomplice had left open. In a few seconds, he had possession of Hansen’s 9 mm semi-automatic pistol. After arming himself, Lorenzo located the remaining guard, William Melton, in the booking area and took him prisoner at gunpoint. The Annex was now entirely in the control of the criminals.

Joined by McKenna, the three inmates stripped the guards, donned their uniforms and were ready for their escape. Unfortunately for them, they didn’t realize that the elevator located next to the gun lockers and controlled from the main Control Booth would have taken them to the first floor and freedom. Instead, they attempted to exit the front jail entrance, but were blocked by detectives who had responded to the alarm activated by Officer Hansen. The inmates retreated back into the interior of the jail where the captured guards had been left handcuffed. The escape attempt was aborted and the incident turned into a hostage situation.

After letting a few selected inmates whom they trusted out of their cells, the three ringleaders returned to the gun lockers. They retrieved the service weapons of Officers Murray and Melton, along with a .380 semi-automatic pistol. This gave the bad guys an arsenal of four handguns, three loaded 9 mm magazines, and a box of ammunition for the .380.

As they searched through the facility, they came across something almost as valuable to them as the weapons: a complete department Policy & Procedure Manual. While watching for police activity on the TV monitors covering the entrances, the convicts could now read about how the cops planned to respond to various jail incidents, how SWAT units would be deployed, and the techniques that might be used by Metro negotiators.

Outside the jail, uniformed personnel quickly contained the exterior of the building; two six-man SWAT teams were put into position in the corridor outside the jail entrance and elsewhere in the immediate area.

The recently created Hostage Negotiation Team made contact with the inmates via the cellblock phone system. Felix Lorenzo identified himself as the spokesman for the convicts; Patrick McKenna was later identified as the “security chief.” For the next several hours, Lorenzo refused to discuss a resolution to the standoff directly with the police. Instead, he insisted on face-to-face meetings with specific local newsmen and attorneys whom he felt could be trusted more than the lawmen. The situation remained deadlocked until the police agreed to arrange for the requested third-party mediators.

Each side had concerns about the other that needed to be resolved before meetings could begin. The cops were afraid that the mediator could be a tempting target for the inmates to add to their cache of hostages. The inmates worried about a forced entry by a SWAT team and that their negotiator might get picked off or captured during the negotiating sessions.

To discourage a police assault, the felons periodically moved their hostages around, handcuffing them in close proximity to various points of entry.

The safety of the negotiators was addressed in a mutual agreement. A table was placed half in and half out of the jail-entrance door. This allowed the inmate negotiator—either Lorenzo or McKenna—to sit at the enclosed end of the table with limited exposure. The civilian mediator would remain in the open and be less apt to be harmed or taken prisoner by the convicts.

For further protection of the mediator, the police assigned a marksman to a position in a nearby parking structure whenever meetings were in progress. Overlooking the negotiating table at a distance of about 25 yards, the sniper was under instructions to shoot if it appeared the third party was in danger of being harmed or taken prisoner. As an additional precaution, several SWAT members were concealed in a stairwell close to the meeting site, ready to respond quickly to any threatening behavior by the inmates. A member of the Hostage Negotiation Team, too, was out of sight, but within earshot of the sessions.

Eighteen hours after taking control of the Annex, the inmates released a list consisting of 10 demands to Deputy Public Defender Tom Leen, one of the mediators approved by the convicts. They related to such things as the availability of a law library and medical services, improved visitation, phone calls, and food.

Most of these concerns had previously been brought to the attention of jail authorities through the appropriate channels and found to have some merit. Changes were in fact being developed at the time of the takeover.

While the police were preparing responses to the initial demands, they maintained phone contact with Lorenzo and McKenna. Just prior to noon on Sunday, McKenna asked for newspapers, inmate mail and medication.


At this point a second mediator was brought aboard. He was Bob Stoldal, News Director of KLAS-TV.

Thirty-two years later, Bob Stoldal still has vivid memories of his participation in the jail incident. He remembers that he was recruited as a mediator directly by Patrick McKenna.

“I was at the TV station when the phone rang; it was Patrick. He identified himself and the situation. I’d never met him before, but I knew his father. He said he knew who I was and that he wanted a member of the media to act as an intermediary between the inmates and the police. We discussed the issue and I agreed to come down to the jail, which I did,” the reporter says.

Stoldal's involvement was acceptable to Metro. He had a good relationship with them, having covered the cop beat for several years. They knew him personally, and his mother had worked in the records section of the former Las Vegas Police Department.

By accepting McKenna's offer, the reporter placed himself in a very dangerous situation. His role would place him face to face with armed convicts with little or no concern for his well-being. They could kill him or attempt to take him hostage at their whim. And if the bad guys did make a move on him, he could very well become a victim of friendly fire by the law enforcement personnel assigned to protect him. In spite of these risks, Stoldal entered the arena.

“The table where I met with the inmates was positioned so that they would be sitting inside the room and couldn’t get to me very easily. I stayed outside the room, leaving them about ten or twelve feet away from me and behind a high counter. That arrangement gave both of us some protection,” Stoldal recalls.

“I would take food up to the inmates and bring messages back to the officers, more of a messenger than a negotiator,” he continued. “I remember the first time I went up there alone to meet McKenna. I kept looking at him and asked if he was pointing a gun at me; he said he wasn’t. Since I didn’t see any upside to him shooting me, I tended to believe him. I don’t know how many trips I made up those stairs, but I’ll tell you that the walk up always seemed longer than the walk back.”

At one point, Metro wanted the inmates to show the newsman the hostages to verify their condition. “An image sticks in my mind of one of the guards being brought out behind the counter. I asked him how he was and he said he was okay. I remember he looked very scared and a little beat up,” Stoldal recalled.

“I don’t know as saying I felt threatened or afraid would be the right words,” he explained. “You kind of get in a zone during something like that. I do remember that I always looked directly at the inmates so as not to show any fear and be as calm as possible, as conversational as possible. About the middle of the second day, one of the members of the police negotiating team pulled me aside and kind of shook me. ‘You’ve got to be more careful,’ he warned me. He was concerned that I might be getting too friendly with the inmates. He wanted to remind me that these were the ‘bad guys’ and not to trust them. ‘It’s a matter of life or death,’ he said.”

Stoldal was aware of the sniper positioned in the parking garage and that he would be in the direct line of fire should the inmates make a move on him. He was under orders that if he felt threatened, he was to dive to his right behind a large metal trash container and crawl away. Thankfully, that never became necessary.

Years later, Stoldal joked with Jerry Keller, “Which way was I supposed to dive? I never could remember.”

As these meetings continued and the police pressed for the release of the captured guards, unbeknownst to Stoldal or the cops, things were deteriorating inside the jail. Although the inmates had allowed each of the hostages to telephone his family—viewed as a positive development— two of the ringleaders were in sharp disagreement over what to do next.

Felix Lorenzo reportedly wanted to kill Officer Murray over a previous altercation. Eugene Shaw was allegedly concerned about what Lorenzo and McKenna might do, and wanted to contain them so that he could surrender to the police.

At approximately 5:30 Monday morning, nearly 48 hours into the escape attempt, Sgt. Keller was on the phone with McKenna. The inmate was seated on the floor outside the door to the on-duty Sergeant’s Office. Officer Melton was handcuffed to a chair nearby. In a major breakthrough, Keller convinced McKenna to release Melton as a sign of good faith.

Just as Keller was cradling the handset, he heard the sound of gunshots over the phone and immediately called back. An inmate named Kuzman answered the phone. He advised Sgt. Keller that there had been a gunfight and that Shaw and Lorenzo were dead.

Kuzman was ordered to unload all weapons and surrender, an order with which he complied. McKenna stripped off the correction officer’s uniform he was wearing and walked out of the jail with Officers Hansen and Murray to surrender. Officer Melton, who had sustained a minor hand wound during the shootout, remained inside. SWAT personnel cleared the facility and all of the inmates were subsequently transferred to the Clark County Detention Center.

In the investigation that followed, physical evidence and interviews with personnel and inmates were used to reconstruct the final moments of the siege.

It was determined that while McKenna was negotiating by phone with Sgt. Keller, Shaw and Lorenzo became engaged in a violent argument in a corridor a few feet from McKenna’s location. Shooting erupted between the two, switching from position to position during the gunfight. Eventually, Lorenzo fell dead inside the Sergeant’s Office, but not before wounding Shaw. During the gunfire, Officer Melton suffered a bullet wound to his left hand.

With Lorenzo disposed of, Shaw turned his attention to McKenna, who was still inside the Sergeant’s Office. The inmates swapped bullets; McKenna’s aim was more accurate. Within a few seconds, Shaw joined Lorenzo as an ex-inmate.

Patrick McKenna was charged in Shaw’s death, but was acquitted. He did, however, receive an additional 92-year sentence for his role in the takeover. In 1980 he was convicted of murdering his cellmate while in the Clark County Detention Center.

Bob Stoldal continued his career as one of the most respected newsmen in Las Vegas. On June 30, 2008, he retired from KLAS-TV after 36 years there. He unretired a year later to become executive vice president of news at KVBC-TV in Las Vegas.



Dennis Griffin is a True Crime Author, Co-Host of Crime Wire and Real WiseguysonInside Lenz Network.  He has written several books concentrating on the history of the mob presence in Las Vegas. www.dennisngriffin.com
  

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Shootout



ByDennis N. Griffin

The men and women of law enforcement don't have the luxury of picking and choosing each and every situation they become involved in. They respond to calls for service as dispatched, and react to what they observe while on the streets. Complaint-takers can reduce the risk to officers by obtaining detailed information of the situation the officer is responding to. And the officer's training, experience and instincts can guide him or her  in how they handle the various circumstances they encounter while on patrol. But nothing is cast in stone. Every call and incident carries its own unique problems and dangers. Yet to keep us and our communities safe, these dedicated individuals are out there day after day putting their lives on the line.

One such person is Enrique Hernandez. Enrique is a cop in Las Vegas, Nevada, and in my eyes is a true hero.

The Story
  
In 2002, 28-year-old Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department officer Enrique Hernandez lived on the northwest side of Las Vegas with his wife Leean and their year-old daughter Maricela. The former Marine had graduated from the police academy in June, and finished riding with a field-training officer that October. He was at the beginning of what appeared to be a promising law-enforcement career. But late that year he was involved in an incident that nearly took his life. I had an opportunity to interview Officer Hernandez in 2003.

It was December 12, and Officer Hernandez was working alone on patrol on the 3 p.m. to 1 a.m. shift. At about 10:20, he was stopped at a traffic light at the intersection of Eastern and Bonanza. Facing southbound on Eastern, he observed a dark-colored SUV turn from Bonanza onto Eastern, also heading south. The vehicle had no license plate, nor was any permit, sticker or decal visible. Immediately after making the turn, the SUV pulled into a gas station and convenience store located on the southeast corner of the intersection. As the traffic light changed, Officer Hernandez proceeded through the intersection and followed the suspect vehicle into the parking lot. He turned on his car’s roof lights, planning to stop the vehicle and determine its registration status.

Although many police officers might argue that there is no such thing as a “routine” traffic stop, up to this point nothing had happened to cause Hernandez to become alarmed. There was no indication that there was anything particularly unusual or dangerous about the SUV. But unknown to Hernandez,  its driver, 24-year-old Javier Duarte Chavez, was an illegal immigrant. Previously convicted of a felony in Nevada, Chavez had served time in the state prison system and been deported to Mexico upon his release. At that time, he’d been warned that he’d be in big trouble if he returned to the United States. In spite of that, he did come back, using the alias of Saul Morales Garcia. He told family and friends that he would never again go to prison or be sent back across the border.

That wasn’t Chavez’ only problem, however. On this night he was driving back from the residence of a man and woman who owed him money and were refusing to pay. Though armed with a stolen .38 revolver, the slight, five-foot-tall Mexican, left the couple’s home without the money after being told the police had been called.

It will never be known for sure whether Chavez thought the police were trying to stop him for the incident that had just occurred, although that seems like a strong possibility. Whatever was in his mind, he had no intention of letting Officer Hernandez get a hold of him.

The lives of both men were drastically altered by the events of the next two minutes and 45 seconds.

“I put my lights on, but the SUV swung around out of the parking lot and headed back south on Eastern. I called in that I was in a pursuit and gave the direction of travel. The suspect made a left on Cedar, a right on 28th Street, and then a left on Marlin. He started out with a lead on me, but I was gaining on him all the time,” Hernandez remembers.

“Shortly after we got on Marlin, he lost control of the vehicle, jumped the curb and hit a light pole. I pulled in to the curb behind him. He hit that pole pretty hard and I didn’t think he’d get out and run right away, but he did. I called in that I was now in a foot pursuit and the chase was on again.

“We were running through an apartment complex and I was several yards behind. All of a sudden I saw one of the apartment doors open and he ran inside, the door shut behind him. He hadn’t displayed a weapon yet, but it was obvious there was more to this than I had originally thought. In my mind, I was concerned that he may take the occupants of the apartment hostage. I drew my gun, opened the door, and went in. I didn’t see the suspect, but there was a woman standing inside the door and a couple of little kids. The woman started screaming.

“It was a small apartment. The living room was on my right and I could see that the next room toward the back was a kitchen area, with a sliding glass door leading to the outside. I didn’t know if the suspect had gone out the back or was somewhere in the apartment. I started moving cautiously toward the kitchen, stopping by the wall that separated the two rooms. As I again went forward into the kitchen, I detected movement against the wall to my left, about five feet away. Then I saw two muzzle flashes. My left arm was jerked back, but I didn’t realize right away that I’d been hit. We then fired at each other simultaneously. I learned later that my round struck him near the right armpit and exited out his back. His bullet got me in my right forearm, my gun arm. It shattered the bone, then traveled up my arm and lodged in my shoulder; it’s still in there. It felt like the arm had been blown off. It went dead and I lost the feeling in it; my gun fell out of my hand to the floor. I was now totally defenseless. It turned out that his wound wasn’t debilitating.”

There was a brief pause, during which Officer Hernandez realized that he had to get out of that apartment. As he started to retreat, he accidentally kicked his gun, knocking it under a piece of furniture. Before he could get out of the room, Chavez again opened fire. Hernandez was struck in his side, neck, and leg. He stumbled toward the front door, falling, then regaining his feet. He made it outside and fell to the ground about 10 feet from the door. Chavez, his gun now empty, fled in the other direction through the sliding-glass doors. It was later learned that the apartment in which the shooting occurred was where Chavez lived. The screaming woman was his girlfriend.

Hernandez continued his story, “A guy came out of the apartment and asked if I was okay and told me not to die. It turned out that he was the suspect’s brother-in-law. He’d been upstairs taking a shower while the shooting was going on. I asked him to call 9-1-1 and tell them what had happened. The last they’d heard from me was when I called in the foot pursuit. Responding units would have no idea exactly where I was.”

As additional personnel arrived, they administered medical treatment while Hernandez, who remained conscious at all times, provided suspect information. He said it wasn’t until he got into the ambulance that the pain began to set in.

While the fallen officer was being transported to the hospital, his survival uncertain, the hunt for Javier Duarte Chavez began. SWAT and K-9 teams soon tracked the fugitive to a nearby row of unoccupied apartments. One of the dogs confirmed that Chavez was hiding in an airshaft a few feet above the floor. As SWAT officers prepared to enter the apartment, they were not certain of how much ammunition Chavez had for the .38, and thought he might have picked up Hernandez’ service weapon, which remained undiscovered at the scene of the shooting.

After several unsuccessful attempts to get Chavez to surrender, he pointed his .38 at the officers and they opened fire, killing the suspect. It was later determined that his gun had been empty and the incident was a case of “suicide by cop.” A coroner’s inquest and Use of Force Board both ruled that the shooting of Chavez was justified.

Officer Hernandez was released from the hospital before Christmas, but he faced more than a year of therapy and rehabilitation. In January 2004 he completed treatment and was taken off medication. He returned to work on light-duty at the Downtown Area Command and the Public Information Office. In early March he was assigned to the Domestic Violence Detail on restricted duty. He carries a gun, but is prohibited from getting involved in physical altercations. It is anticipated that the three bullets still in his body will eventually work themselves out and no surgery is planned. “My right arm is in good shape. My hand is only about 60% and my left foot hurts most of the time, but I’m back to work and I’m happy,” Enrique says. He has no complaints about how Metro has treated him since the shooting.

“I couldn’t ask for anything more. My Metro family has done everything possible in the way of help and support,” he said.

And finally, the big question. On that night, wounded and unarmed, did he think he was going to die?
“I never thought that. I knew I was going to live,” Hernandez said confidently.
Under those circumstances, how could he be so sure?
“Because I wasn’t going to let a guy like him kill me.”

And he didn’t.



Dennis Griffin is a True Crime Author, Co-Host of Crime Wire and Real Wiseguyson Inside Lenz Network.  He has written several books concentrating on the history of the mob presence in Las Vegas. www.dennisngriffin.com
  




Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Skimming the Las Vegas Casinos - Part III



By Dennis Griffin

This is the third of a three-part series explaining how organized crime families skimmed money from several Las Vegas casinos in the 1970s and '80s, and how the law eventually brought them down. 

The Investigations in Las Vegas

While FBI agents and prosecutors from several offices participated in the investigations that brought down the mobsters and ended organized-crime’s hidden control over the Las Vegas casinos, personnel assigned to Sin City itself played a major role, albeit with one rather embarrassing moment.
The agents were confident that casino money was leaving Vegas illegally and ending up in Chicago, but they needed to prove it. The feds placed the Stardust and certain employees under physical surveillance. After months of investigation, they identified a pattern for one method of the skim involving Allen Glick’s Stardust and Fremont casinos. Their big break came in May 1981.
“One of the people we were watching was a guy named Bobby Stella,” former agent Emmett Michaels remembers. “One Tuesday afternoon my partner and I saw Stella leave the casino carrying a brown paper bag. We followed him to the parking lot of a hardware store on Maryland Parkway. This particular business had several locations in Las Vegas. A man identified as Phil Ponto, who was also employed by the Stardust, met Stella there. We found out later that Ponto was a ‘made man,’ affiliated with the Chicago Outfit. The two talked for a few minutes, then Stella passed the bag to Ponto and drove away. We stayed with Ponto and the bag.”
Ponto left the hardware store and drove to his home, located off Paradise Road near the Las Vegas Hilton. He went into his house, but emerged a few minutes later to retrieve the bag from his car. The surveillance continued, but there was no activity of importance the rest of the week. Things changed on Sunday, though.
“Ponto left his house around 7:30 that morning and placed the brown bag in the trunk of his car. For some reason he then moved the car across the street, and then went back inside,” Michaels continued. “He came back out a few minutes later and drove to church. After mass he drove around town for two hours with no apparent destination or purpose. He drove in and out of shopping malls and parking lots, but made no stops. Eventually, he pulled into another one of the hardware store locations; this one was on Tropicana. There he made contact with another man we weren’t familiar with. The new guy was wearing a suit and driving a rental car. They talked for a few minutes, and then Ponto handed the bag over to the new guy. We dropped Ponto and followed the stranger as he headed toward California on Interstate 15.”
With the agents watching, the guy in the rental car pulled into the second rest area outside of Las Vegas. There, he emptied bundles of money from the paper bag and placed them in special pockets sewn into the inside of his suit coat. When all the money had been transferred, the courier continued on to the Los Angeles airport where he caught a flight to Chicago. Agents from southern Nevada contacted the Chicago FBI office, asking agents there to pick up the surveillance of the subject when his flight arrived. After reaching Chicago, the man paid a visit to Outfit boss Joe Aiuppa, presumably to deliver the money. The courier was subsequently identified as Joseph Talerico, a Teamster official.
The agents had validated their theory of the skim, but they were a long way from having proof that would stand up in a court of law. Additional investigation indicated that money was also being skimmed from the Glick-controlled Fremont. The G-men believed the cash was taken from there on a monthly basis and delivered to Chicago. They developed a plan that called for the lawmen to get marked money into the skim pipeline. That meant agents would have to visit the Fremont the evening before a suspected shipment and do some gambling at the tables. Emmett Michaels, Charlie Parsons, and Michael Glass were tasked with getting the marked money into the system. In order to get a sufficient number of $100 bills into the drop boxes, they had to lose.
“I always had trouble losing when I was playing with government money,” Emmett Michaels recalled with a grin. “I played blackjack and often had some incredible runs of good luck. Sometimes I’d be so desperate to lose so that I’d have to buy more chips, that I’d play very recklessly. I’d throw even the most basic strategy out the window and call for a hit on a hand of nineteen. The dealer and the other players would look at me like I was crazy. But when I was on one of those streaks, I’d draw a damn deuce.”
Sometimes that kind of luck drew attention that wasn’t necessarily wanted. “There were times when I’d have stacks of chips piled up in front of me and the pit boss would come over and invite me to get some of the perks reserved for high rollers. It was usually a different story when I was spending a night out somewhere else and playing with my own money.”
In spite of his undesired prowess at the table, Michaels and his colleagues were able to drop enough money to accomplish what they wanted to do. Now that they knew their plan would work, the next step was to choose a time when the courier would be picked up and nabbed with the proof of the skim in his possession.

The Cookie Caper

In order to conduct electronic surveillance and searches and to make arrests, a judge had to approve and sign warrants. Some of the lawmen involved suspected that a certain judge might not be keeping the FBI’s operations a secret. They found it hard to believe, for example, that after bugging a table in a Stardust restaurant where the casino manager and assistant manager ate their meals every day, the only thing the men seemed to talk about was golf and women. But the government was required to follow the law and obtain the appropriate warrants and authorizations regardless of their suspicions.
“Harry,” a bail bondsman who came to Las Vegas in 1958, thinks he knows another method by which the bad guys found out about whose phones were being tapped. “I had a lot of juice with the phone company then. I know for a fact that a phone company employee regularly provided a list of numbers that were going to be tapped. I know because I received a copy of those lists myself. There were a lot of people who were very glad to get that kind of information.”
In addition to the phone company employee, Harry alleges there was an even better source for leaks. “There was a concern at the phone company that a phone might be tapped without having full legal authorization. So the company hired a lawyer to review all the paperwork for each tap. It turns out that the lawyer they retained worked out of Oscar Goodman’s office. Did you ever hear of anything so outrageous?”
Whether leaks resulted as Harry contends, were the work of an unscrupulous judge, or a combination of both, the bottom line is that the targets frequently knew ahead of time what the lawmen were planning.  

* * *

Stan Hunterton, the former Strike Force attorney, was involved in preparing and submitting warrant applications to the court and helping plan some of the law enforcement activities, including when arrest warrants would be served.
“Joseph Talerico was always the courier for the skim money from the Argent casinos,” Hunterton recalled. “The routine was for him to come to Vegas and get the money. His contact here was Phil Ponto. This Ponto was what we called a sleeper. That’s someone with no criminal record, but Ponto was actually a ‘made man’ out of Chicago. One of the agents thought he recognized Ponto’s name from a book written by mobster-turned-informant Jimmy Fratiano. It turned out the agent was right, only in the book the name had been misspelled as Ponti.
“On January 3, 1982, not long after the indictments in the Tropicana case, the FBI was ready to arrest Talerico and Ponto when they exchanged the skim money. The day started off with a variation on the part of Ponto; he was carrying a box instead of a paper bag. I guess everybody assumed they’d decided to put the money in a box that day and didn’t think too much of it. But when the arrests were made, there was no money. The box contained cookies and wine.
“It was obvious that the bad guys had become aware of what was coming down. They had set us up, no doubt about it. I can smile about it all these years later, but I can assure you there was nothing funny about it at the time. An awful lot of time and effort had been spent getting to that point, and then it all went down the toilet. Needless to say, we were the butt of a lot of jokes in what became known as the cookie caper.”
Hunterton hauled Talerico and Ponto before a grand jury in 1983. Their first effort to avoid talking was to exercise their Fifth Amendment rights against self-incrimination. Hunterton countered that by granting both men immunity. Even with no legal reason to remain silent, the pair still refused to testify. They were each sent to jail for contempt, but their lips remained sealed. They never did answer the government’s questions.

* * *

Strawman case agent Lynn Ferrin remembers the skimming investigations very well. “They were exciting times,” he said.
“When we were watching Ponto and Talerico, we made high-quality films of their meetings. On one occasion we brought in three lip readers to try to figure out what their conversations had been. One of the experts came very close to what we believed had been said; we would have loved to be able to use his interpretation in an affidavit. But the other two had differing opinions. With that lack of agreement, we ended up disregarding all of their versions. I even rented an apartment next to Ponto’s residence for a while during the surveillance. I spoke with him occasionally. He was very quiet … a real sleeper.”
Regarding the cookie caper, “It was a real bad day for us and me personally. If I’d been living in feudal Japan I’d have been required to fall on my sword. We’d been doing these Sunday surveillances on those guys for several months and everything had always gone like clockwork. But on that day the crooks were so confident and comfortable; we’d never seen anything like that before. We didn’t know for sure who, how, or why, but someone had obviously ratted us out to the mob. We were highly confident that the leak wasn’t from any of our people. Many of us believed that the federal judge who signed the order authorizing the electronic surveillance at the Stardust was the culprit. That was only speculation, but after that it seemed like the bad guys were aware of what we were doing. We had to call Washington and tell them what happened and that we couldn’t say for certain why it had gone wrong.
“Prior to that day I had been in favor of simply stopping Ponto one of those mornings and grabbing the bag from him. He certainly couldn’t have complained to the police and it would have given us the probable cause we were looking for. But headquarters and DOJ [Department of Justice] were afraid something would go wrong and never approved the snatch. If they had, it would have caused a lot of ripples in the various crime families. They may have even taken action against some of their own if they suspected them of being involved in stealing the skim.”
Another incident that Ferrin described as “sensitive” involved aerial surveillance. “Our plane developed some problems and was forced to land on the golf course at the Las Vegas Country Club. It turned out to not be a very discreet surveillance.” This scene was depicted in the movie Casino.
But other covert operations went very well. “Our guys did a tremendous job. Agents posing as maintenance men bugged a table in a restaurant at the Stardust in front of a room full of guests and casino employees. It was a good placement.”
After the cookie caper, the FBI changed tactics from covert to overt and went after the Stardust’s new owners, the Trans Sterling Corporation, openly. “We had enough information to start going over their records,” Ferrin said. “The Carl Thomas method of the skim primarily involved stealing from the count room. We found that another method of theft was also going on at the Stardust. This one involved the cashier’s cage.
“We looked at thousands of fill slips from the Stardust for the years that we knew the skim was going on. The fill slips were used when chips were removed from the cage to replenish the supplies at the gaming tables when they ran low on chips. The slips were required to have the signatures of four different casino employees. The money involved was about $20,000 per slip, and was presumed to reflect [casino] losses at the tables. We eventually discovered a pattern of forged signatures on the fill slips. That discovery led to the next step. We took handwriting samples from over two hundred Stardust employees and sent them to the FBI lab in Washington. Analysis revealed that the casino manager, Lou Salerno, was responsible for most of the forgeries.
“We got some good convictions in this phase. More important, though, through our investigation we were able to help the Nevada Gaming Control Board seize the Stardust. They revoked the licenses of the Trans Sterling people and fined them $1 million. The Stardust was eventually purchased by the Boyd Group, ending over a decade of mob control.”
That wasn’t the entire story for Lynn Ferrin, though. “The cage manager was a guy named Larry Carpenter. During the course of the investigation, he came to hate my guts. We lived in the same neighborhood and some mornings I’d come out to go to work and find that somebody had spit all over my car. I’d have to clean the car off before heading for the office. I suspected that Carpenter was responsible.
“Carpenter was gay and had full-blown AIDS. I thought maybe he was trying to infect me by having me come in contact with his body fluid and absorb it through my skin. Anyway, I stayed up all night to see if I could find out who was sliming my car. Around 5 a.m. I caught Carpenter coming around the corner on his bike. I could tell by the look on his face that he was the one. It never happened again after that morning. Carpenter later committed suicide, hanging himself when he went to jail.”
But there was more. “Lou DiMartini was a floorman at the Stardust. He claimed that during the investigation I caused him to suffer irreparable harm by asking his employer questions about him. He filed a $1 million civil suit against the government and me individually. It took seven years and the case went all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court where it was decided in the government’s and my favor.”  
How does Ferrin sum up the results of the Strawman investigations?
“I think that our investigation basically broke the back of the mob’s efforts to control the casinos in Las Vegas.”

That last statement seems to say it all.        



Dennis Griffin is a True Crime Author, Co-Host of Crime Wire and Real Wiseguys on VegasKool.com.  He has written several books concentrating on the history of the mob presence in Las Vegas. www.dennisngriffin.com
  



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