Operation Family Secrets Part 17

On Wednesday afternoon, January 28, 2009, at 2:40 p.m., my father was ushered into Judge Zagel's courtroom, dressed in an orange prison jumpsuit with his gla.s.ses strangely tied around the back of his head with a torn strip from a white unders.h.i.+rt. Prior to sentencing him on the three counts-the RICO, the extortion of Connie's Pizza, and the bookmaking charges-the judge scheduled the victim impact statements to be heard. Such statements are designed to give crime victims the opportunity to use the criminal justice system as a public forum to describe the personal effect a defendant's crimes had on them and their families. After the victims' families, prosecutor Funk would have his say, and then my father would address the court, after which he would immediately be sentenced.

First up was Charlene Moravecek, one of the most emotional speakers representing the victims' families. It was charged that my father had slit the throat of her husband, Paul Haggerty. (The jury deadlocked in a.s.signing my dad responsibility for Haggerty's death, but Judge Zagel agreed with Funk, holding my father legally-and financially-responsible for the cold-blooded execution.) Moravecek had waited over thirty years to face my dad. After addressing the judge, Moravecek turned around to my father and asked rhetorically, "Where was G.o.d thirty-two years ago when you slit his throat?

"You broke my heart, but you'll never take away my dignity," she added.

"G.o.d bless you," my dad answered.

"Don't even try," Moravecek shot back, staring my father down. She was escorted out of the courtroom by the victim-witness advocate seated at the prosecution table. down. She was escorted out of the courtroom by the victim-witness advocate seated at the prosecution table.

The most potent statement came from Tony Ortiz, whose father, Richard Ortiz, was shotgunned to death by my uncle and Jimmy DiForti while my dad watched from the car. Tony, who was twelve years old at the time, came from a family of ten children. He described to the court how he quit high school to help support his family after they lost their house, and how, without his father to cheer him on, he gave up his one true pa.s.sion, playing baseball. He described Richard Ortiz as a good father and said that in spite of his tragic death, something good came out of it. Tony became a devoted husband and father to four children, not letting a day go by without expressing his love to his wife and kids.

As the victims addressed the court, my father barely seemed to be paying attention; he had his head down and scribbled notes on a pad of paper. The overall theme of many of the family members' outrage was my father's snickering and laughter during the trial. Seated among the victims waiting to speak were my brothers, Kurt and Nicky.

Right up to the last minute that morning, Kurt didn't know whether he should appear. He decided he needed to air his feelings, to get them out. He and Nicky ended up sitting with the victims. n.o.body knew Nicky because he had kept a low profile at the trial. When Kurt got up, he was nervous and apprehensive about whether the victims' family members felt he belonged. Security was tight, with my dad surrounded by three U.S. marshals. As Kurt got up to speak, attorney Lopez raised an objection. Kurt hardly qualified as a victim.

"Not on the same level as these people," Kurt declared, "but I am definitely a victim of my father."

Kurt went on to speak about the verbal and physical abuse he and his brothers took. The beatings. The thrown objects. At the end of his statement, Kurt had one final demand.

"I would like you to apologize for never being a father to me. You were an enforcer, not a father, who forced me to become something I never wanted to be. I had no choice."

Dad defiantly shouted back, accusing his "worthless" son of lying and stealing. "I never hit you. I never abused you. All the neighbors will tell you that."

Joe Lopez stood up and voiced disapproval to the judge, arguing that the proceedings had devolved into a media circus, insinuating that the victims' statements were "a dog and pony show." After his comment, an air of disgust and disbelief hung briefly over the courtroom. Kurt was taken aback, especially when my father looked like he was going to come after him. He couldn't understand why the judge didn't stop him from yelling out. That threw Kurt a little.

After Kurt's statement, the defense presented a series of arguments, some of which dealt with the sentencing reports, the combination of murder charges and RICO, and an argument about the viability of a conspiracy. There was an argument regarding the relevance of including the Nick Sarillo bombing, that Jimmy Marcello was not my dad's boss, and that my father shouldn't have to pay rest.i.tution to the victims of crimes committed prior to certain rest.i.tution laws being enacted. Judge Zagel overruled everything, citing the rest.i.tution question as a civil matter.

During allocution, my father launched into a chaotic cascade of accusations and denials, at one point even turning away from the lectern and apologizing directly to Funk for the death threat the jurors "thought" they had heard my father make and for the "inconvenience" this had caused Funk and his family. He was sorry that Kurt was threatened during the trial, but he maintained that he had had no part in it. He was not laughing at the victims (which the judge granted him), but at the false testimony that came from his family members. He wasn't a part of the Outfit, nor did anybody from that organization give him money. He didn't attend their dinners. He was an individual, which was why he was respected. He didn't beat or hurt anyone for money. It was his policy to never put hands on anyone who couldn't pay. He charged 2 percent for legal business loans. He had already done his time for loan-sharking. He'd paid his debt to society. Why was he a part of this trial?

My father bounced from one subject to another in a shaky voice, sometimes without finis.h.i.+ng a previous thought, already on to the next. Which family member stole $3 million from him? Who stole $240,000 in equity from the home of his mother, Sophie Calabrese? His son Frankie stole from him, putting junk up his nose and stealing his cars. His son Kurt stole from him. He bemoaned his health problems. He wore a pacemaker. He was dealing with heart and pituitary problems, not to mention high blood pressure.

"There's no reason for me to be living in that h.e.l.lhole," he repeated over and over, referring to his solitary confinement.

He didn't deserve the treatment he was getting. He demanded to be strapped to a lie detector and tested. He had killed no one, nor was he a party to any murders. He urged his people to quit bookmaking and make an honest living. The threats against Kurt were orchestrated to poison the jury's minds against him.

"I would be glad to sit with all the jurors, though I don't know their names, have a talk, and they would see a different man than the one they were afraid of, and they would know that I was not guilty."

My dad spoke for forty-five minutes. He had proof that I had stolen his antique automobiles. He only "held" money for Johnny Apes. G.o.d was his master. He wasn't anywhere near any of the crime scenes. He said that I had seen every gangster movie ever made, and all I wanted was to be a gangster. He told me I had no business running around "with those kinds of people." He had never done business with Jimmy Marcello. The papers were full of lies. The jury was tainted.

"I keep thinking this is a dream. This isn't reality."

In a bizarre gesture, he referred to the late Mitch Mars: "I'm sorry to hear about Mr. Mars. I heard several people crying for him. Sounds like terrible death. I hope I don't die of cancer."

Then he called for a minute of silent prayer. The judge gazed at him incredulously. Some in the courtroom interpreted my dad's behavior as showing he was nervous and frightened while addressing the court. Although I wasn't there, I must respectfully disagree. My father was not scared. After they removed the tumor close to his pituitary gland, his memory slipped a bit. He's on a lot of medication. The shaking and the nerves, forgetting things, skipping over subjects-those were not fear, but his illness and his rage coming out simultaneously. He always had difficulty controlling his words, his emotions, and his thoughts when the terrible rage took over. close to his pituitary gland, his memory slipped a bit. He's on a lot of medication. The shaking and the nerves, forgetting things, skipping over subjects-those were not fear, but his illness and his rage coming out simultaneously. He always had difficulty controlling his words, his emotions, and his thoughts when the terrible rage took over.

As for his sitting in a room with twelve jurors and convincing them he's the nicest guy in the world, you know what? He could! I've seen him do it many times with me and my family, with counselors in jail. Even U.S. marshals a.s.signed to watch him and his co-defendants, perhaps because they were to some extent "starstruck" or otherwise fell under his spell, treated him noticeably better than the "average criminal," laughing at his jokes and making small talk with him before Judge Zagel a.s.sumed the bench. Watch him go in and out of different personalities. His bottom jaw juts out. His teeth clench. His eyes get gla.s.sy.

Almost every adversity in my father's life was dealt with and decided by a sit-down. In a mob sit-down, you can sway people into believing certain things by avoiding the main points of contention. He's the master of the sit-down. But a trial is different. At a trial, the judge keeps things on point, and the prosecutors, not operating in awe or fear of any defendant, know that you, as a defendant, are now on their "turf." You can't stray from the central issues or from the truth. And that's what sank my father. The emergence of truth.

At 4:55 p.m., Judge Zagel had the final say.

Responding to a letter written on my father's behalf, Judge Zagel found it reprehensible that my father categorized many of his victims as drug dealers and criminals deserving of their fates, and that society had in some cases actually benefited financially from their deaths. Zagel was openly disgusted with my father's denial and his greed, and especially with the callousness of his laughing at certain testimony that seemed funny to him. What Judge Zagel found extraordinary was the testimony of my uncle and me against our own blood. It was felt we were credible witnesses, and it was his family that ultimately buried him and sealed his fate. witnesses, and it was his family that ultimately buried him and sealed his fate.

"Perhaps you do not have a loving family," Judge Zagel surmised.

On the RICO charge, my father was sentenced to separate sentences of life in prison for each of the homicides the jury tagged him with. For the second count of extortion, he received 240 months. For his bookmaking activities, he got another 60 months. In the event that an appeals court throws out one or more counts, the time will keep running on the remaining convictions.

"Your crimes are unspeakable and my sentence is shut," Zagel continued. "If for any reason you are released from prison, you will go to a custodial center."

Judge Zagel threw the book at my dad. He received multiple sentences of natural life, plus twenty-five years. I would have liked to have been there, standing next to and supporting my brothers. But I didn't need to stand in front of my father and point a finger and challenge him with dirty or mean looks.

I had no idea what kind of circus he and his lawyers would put on. On the other hand, had I gone and watched him come out as an old man who was remorseful, that would have bothered me. You're looking at two people inside one body. One is this vicious man who could take your life in a second. Then there's the other man, a loving father that I'd want to care for.

In the weeks that followed, Judge Zagel finished sentencing the remaining Family Secrets defendants. Joey "the Clown" Lombardo was sentenced after Judge Zagel remarked, "In the end, we are judged by our actions, not by our wit or our smiles. In cases like this, we are judged by the worst things we have done, and the worst things you have done are terrible."

The Clown would be sentenced to life in prison, primarily for the murder of his once-close friend, Daniel Seifert. Lombardo had this to say to Seifert's wife and two sons: "First, I want to say to Emma Seifert, Joe Seifert, and Nicky Seifert, I was sorry for the loss then, I'm sorry for the loss now. I want the court and the Seifert family to know I did not kill Danny Seifert and had nothing to do with it, before, during or after.... Where is the evidence, Funk? Where is the evidence?" the Seifert family to know I did not kill Danny Seifert and had nothing to do with it, before, during or after.... Where is the evidence, Funk? Where is the evidence?"

Leaving the courthouse three decades after her husband's murder, Emma Seifert admitted, "I'll never feel safe."

As for James "Jimmy Light" Marcello, in a far less dramatic atmosphere than the sentencing of my father or Lombardo, Judge Zagel handed down a sentence of life in prison. Little Jimmy was found responsible for the murders of Tony and Michael Spilotro. In a strange twist of irony that had become the trademark of Operation Family Secrets, during the time leading up to the trial, investigators discovered that Marcello and his brother had received information concerning the fact of, and nature of, my uncle's cooperation with the Feds. They had secretly obtained this information from none other than decorated Deputy U.S. Marshal John Ambrose, who was on two of Nick's top-secret witness security details. Following Ambrose's 2009 trial, which was handled by prosecutor Funk, Judge John F. Grady sentenced Ambrose to hard time in a Texas federal penitentiary for endangering my uncle's life and for besmirching his badge and the trust of his colleagues.

When it came time for James Marcello's own sentencing, he showed no emotion, barely nodding his head. He was clad in a sport coat and slacks instead of prison orange.

"I regret you didn't live a better life," Zagel said to Marcello, "but you will have to pay for your crimes."

The final Family Secrets tally of sentences went like this: Frank Calabrese, Sr.: Multiple life sentences, plus 300 months Multiple life sentences, plus 300 months Joey "the Clown" Lombardo: Life Life James "Little Jimmy" Marcello: Multiple life sentences Multiple life sentences Paul "the Indian" Schiro: 20 years 20 years Anthony "Twan" Doyle: 12 years 12 years Michael "Mickey" Marcello: 8.5 years 8.5 years Nick Ferriola: 3 years 3 years Joseph "Family Man" Venezia: 40 months 40 months Thomas Johnson: 30 months 30 months Dennis Johnson: 6 months 6 months That left my uncle, Nick Calabrese. What would be his fate? How would the judge take into account his partic.i.p.ation in fourteen murders while factoring in his cooperation and testimony in putting away the primary players and leaders of the Chicago Outfit?

In antic.i.p.ation of my uncle's sentencing, once again I put pen to paper.

In 1995, before the Calabrese clan was herded off to prison, Uncle Nick took it upon himself to see Johnny Apes, the Outfit underboss to whom he reported. Nick complained to Johnny that his brother had involved his sons in his legal problems and wasn't doing anything to keep us from going to jail.

"What do you want me to do?" Johnny Apes asked Nick.

"I'm just telling you. You're the boss."

Johnny Apes handed my uncle a pistol. "This is the best I can do."

A few months later, I sat with Uncle Nick. By then, we were both estranged from my dad.

I said, "I don't know what to do. I'm on the run from my father and I know you're not talking to him, either."

Uncle Nick offered me the pistol that Johnny Apes gave him.

Prior to his death in 1999, Angelo LaPietra made a comment to his granddaughter Angela that my father should never have brought Kurt and me into his business, and that it was a cardinal sin that should have been dealt with by the bosses.

In January 2001, six years before the Family Secrets trial, I left Chicago and moved to a rural Cary, Illinois, town house and reunited with Lisa and my two children. A year later, we decided to leave the Midwest. The family was getting along well. During that time, I gradually shared bits of information with Lisa about my ongoing cooperation with the FBI OC squad and Agent Mike Maseth. Once the indictments fell, a major Mafia trial was now on the horizon. After Lisa and I received threatening calls that we suspected came from one of my father's surrogates, I realized it would be best if my family left Illinois to start a new life elsewhere.

Wanting to go someplace warm, at first I looked into relocating to Florida, but I didn't find anything affordable. A trip west to Nevada didn't pan out either. After a pit stop in Arizona, I lined up an appointment with a local real-estate agent. I phoned Lisa with the news. I had put in a lowball bid on a modest single-family home in a cul-de-sac. Arizona wasn't only a haven for retired golfers and ex-gangsters. The schools were good, and there were plenty of children in the neighborhood. Arizona's dry climate was less likely to aggravate my MS symptoms than were the humidity and cold of Chicago.

At the beginning of June 2002, I loaded up my family for the long drive to the Southwest. The government provided me with a modest stipend to relocate. The sum, dispensed monthly, was markedly less than what a company in the private sector might pay an employee to move cross-country. We were Arizona-bound. markedly less than what a company in the private sector might pay an employee to move cross-country. We were Arizona-bound.

The Witness Security Program was never an option. Had my family and I gone into WITSEC, I would have become a man with no history or past, which I felt would permanently limit me to low-paying jobs. Being in WITSEC would have meant giving up contact with family and friends, something I wasn't willing to do. I also felt it would do grave harm to my children if they had to conceal their real ident.i.ties.

Besides, I'm not one to run and hide. It's not how my dad raised me.

Arriving in Arizona, I opened up a West Coast office of a skin care company of which I had part owners.h.i.+p. After a couple of years of successfully building the business, I was offered a buyout and decided it was time to do what I loved the most: go into the restaurant business and make pizzas.

Lisa and I opened a boutique pizza parlor in an una.s.suming strip mall. The bistro served quality Chicago thin-crust pizza along with some of the same Italian entrees I whipped up during my days working at Armand's in Elmwood Park. Lisa became the salad queen of the eatery, and as we built the business, I worked seven days a week to make it a success. Settling into new surroundings, I sat with Lisa and the kids to explain what I had been through during the past decade. Back with my family, I would put the lessons of my relations.h.i.+p with my father to work on my own children. I vowed that together we would have a loving, team-driven family unit.

By the summer of 2007, when CNN began broadcasting coverage of the Family Secrets trial, my dad's face filled the television screen. Friends from Chicago and neighbors who knew the Calabrese name began asking questions. Then some of the kids' friends at school discovered on the Internet the murderous ways of "Grandpa Poppi." Amazingly, the kids and I learned how nonjudgmental Arizona residents could be. ("A few of the kids at school thought we were cool," my daughter, Kelly Calabrese, recalled.) The Family Secrets trial added another Arizona angle when Anthony Doyle, who had retired and settled in the small desert town of Wickenburg, Arizona, was returned to Chicago to stand trial. when Anthony Doyle, who had retired and settled in the small desert town of Wickenburg, Arizona, was returned to Chicago to stand trial.

While the children adapted to their new home, Lisa was concerned about their safety. During the trial, journalists and news vans flocked to our pizza joint, much to the displeasure of the strip's landlord. When the hair salon next door alerted me that reporters were asking questions about their new neighbor's past, something had to give.

Lisa became frightened by unsavory-looking characters that showed up in the mall. With increased trial publicity, she worried that if I continued to make myself accessible around the restaurant and someone from the Outfit tried to kill me, it could jeopardize the safety of our children, our employees, and our patrons.

Luigi Mondini, my handling agent, and a.s.sistant U.S. Attorney John Scully flew into Arizona to rea.s.sure Lisa. I was undaunted and ready to complete my mission. About that time, the U.S. Attorney's Office and the FBI worked with me on my pending testimony. Before I was flown back to Chicago, for security purposes, I was holed up in a secret location in preparation for my appearance on the stand.

Responding to Lisa's fears, Luigi secured a place in a gated compound residence in Tucson for me to prep the next five weeks. Lisa and I decided to close the restaurant for the summer, with hopes of reopening in the fall after the trial. We decided that if word circulated that I was temporarily in protective custody, the rest of the family would be safe. Although there was no evidence that I or the family had been stalked by members of the Outfit, there was speculation that my father had hired private detectives to locate me. An alarming moment occurred when a man in a Jeep with Illinois license plates sped up to the front of our house and screeched his tires loudly. It turned out to be a friend of a neighbor, who, ironically, was an exNew York City cop.

After the Operation Family Secrets convictions and sentencing, life for my family in Arizona returned to a semblance of normality. Although my father currently serves his prison sentence in solitary confinement apart from the general population at the U.S. Medical Center for Federal Prisoners (MCFP) in Springfield, Missouri, his presence still lingers miles away in the Southwest. in solitary confinement apart from the general population at the U.S. Medical Center for Federal Prisoners (MCFP) in Springfield, Missouri, his presence still lingers miles away in the Southwest.

Lisa calls it the Umbrella Effect. The fear of him doesn't stop simply because he's locked up. To this day, Lisa has nightmares about the man. His aura penetrates prison walls. A guy like Frank Calabrese, Sr., doesn't just affect one person. He looms over us like a large umbrella-from me to my wife and her immediate family, to my kids, and to the friends of my children. Not once did my father seem to realize how his actions affected those around him.

As for my personal safety, I'm pragmatic. If people can kill presidents, they can kill me. n.o.body is invincible and completely safe in today's world.

After the publicity surrounding the trial, the verdicts, and the subsequent sentencing, Lisa and I reluctantly closed down our pizza parlor. When I joined a new company I met with my manager to explain my past.

I gave my boss the heads-up. We talked man-to-man. Some of the people who now worked with me were people I had known at the restaurant, so I figured it was only a matter of time before the word got out. Besides, I didn't want to blindside my boss. I told him about my past and that I would be glad to answer any questions. If there was a problem, I would rather walk away than make him fire me.

He told me it was admirable that I had taken a bad situation and turned it into a positive. Not having walked in my shoes, after learning my story, he felt fortunate that he he had grown up in a hardworking family with a father who was kind to him. He hoped that I would stick around. had grown up in a hardworking family with a father who was kind to him. He hoped that I would stick around.

On December 1, 2008, ten years after my fateful letter to Special Agent Tom Bourgeois, I sent another letter, this time to Judge Zagel concerning the fate of Uncle Nick, who was to be sentenced on March 26, 2009, for his role in Operation Family Secrets.

The letter read in part: I want the court to know that while my uncle did some terrible things, he is a good man. By testifying, he was trying to do the right thing. While it isn't my intention to justify anything he has done, I know in my heart that he is ready to spend the rest of his life as a productive member of society.

It was extremely difficult to testify against my uncle and take him away from his family. He was there for everybody; putting their needs first.... I believe in my heart that if my uncle received a second chance, he would be a model citizen and family man. I would put my freedom on the line to guarantee it.

Uncle Nick cooperated in January 2002, and after completing his racketeering sentence in November 2002, he remained in custody, working with Mike Maseth and the other FBI agents. As he testified, "I let fear control my life, and beneath that fear was a coward who didn't walk away from that life."

My uncle was sentenced to twelve years and four months for his part in the fourteen Family Secrets murders he committed with my father. His sentence came out to less than one year per killing.

In explaining the logic behind his sentencing, Judge Zagel stated that, unlike defendants Joe Lombardo and my father, Nick showed remorse and shame for his crimes. Zagel noted that Nick had committed fourteen grisly murders and that the sentence was bound to resonate negatively with the general public and more so with the victims' family members and survivors.

Charlene Moravecek looked over at my uncle and p.r.o.nounced, "He is the devil." She left the sentencing in tears and fainted outside the courtroom.

Tony Ortiz was crushed that Zagel didn't give Nick more time. He wasn't buying my uncle's professions of remorse. "He shot my dad in the head with a shotgun nine times," Ortiz later told the press. "Did he once apologize to any of the families? No, he did not."

But Zagel, ordinarily viewed as a law-and-order judge, explained that without revealing firsthand testimony from criminals like my uncle, how could families in the future gain closure by seeing explained that without revealing firsthand testimony from criminals like my uncle, how could families in the future gain closure by seeing their their loved ones' killers brought to justice? Zagel reminded the court that Nick, once released, would forever be looking over his shoulder, and he reminded Nick that the Outfit "will not forgive or relent in their pursuit of you." loved ones' killers brought to justice? Zagel reminded the court that Nick, once released, would forever be looking over his shoulder, and he reminded Nick that the Outfit "will not forgive or relent in their pursuit of you."

While a good number of people seethed that Zagel "went easy" on Uncle Nick, I and members of my family had hoped that his time served between 2002 and 2009 would be sufficient to free him. Instead, with a few months shaved off for good behavior, he could be a free man in 2013.

My uncle entered an "open-end" arrangement, which placed his destiny in the hands of Judge Zagel. Part of that agreement was that the states could not prosecute him for any of the murder charges. Otherwise, there was no deal. Zagel could have sentenced him to life, or Nick could have walked away. He got twelve years, seven more years than Sammy "the Bull" Gravano got for cooperating, and the Bull admitted to being involved in killing nineteen people.

It is clear that without our testimony, Operation Family Secrets wouldn't have developed. Yet I'm sure it was extremely difficult for a.s.sistant U.S. Attorney Funk to plead my uncle's case for leniency. He had to have antic.i.p.ated the unpopular reaction to Uncle Nick's sentence. Yet my uncle's contribution to the case was essential in gaining the convictions of the Outfit's upper echelon, and sent a message that the Outfit would no longer be tolerated.

Prosecutors don't win popularity contests with family, friends, and neighbors by advocating shorter sentences for convicted murderers who cooperate with the Feds. I'm sure Funk struggled with the whole process of speaking on behalf of my uncle. But the public doesn't realize that future defendants need to know that if they come forward and cooperate, there's something in it for them if they're truthful. A deal was a deal, and now it was the government's turn to hold up its end of the bargain. And Funk did not renege on the deal. He told Judge Zagel that the Nicholas Calabrese with whom Funk had many interactions was impossible to square with the cold-blooded and methodical executioner Nick admitted to having once been: my uncle, in short, presented a "walking, talking, breathing paradox." to square with the cold-blooded and methodical executioner Nick admitted to having once been: my uncle, in short, presented a "walking, talking, breathing paradox."

In the final a.n.a.lysis, I'm happy that I came forward and named my uncle as John Fecarotta's killer. By doing so, I ultimately saved both of our lives. It enabled Nick to atone for his sins and step away from my father and the mob. I and a lot of working-cla.s.s citizens of Illinois are now free of Frank Calabrese, Sr.'s grasp and of the Outfit. The price of liberty is eternal vigilance. If society is to be free of organized crime and the Outfit, we can't have enablers-politicians, the business community, corrupt cops, and ordinary citizens-who make it possible for organized crime to exist.

With the success of Operation Family Secrets in the history books, Mike Maseth was asked to make a special presentation about the case that would be available for various government functions, conventions, and FBI and law enforcement gatherings. When the FBI held one of its national conferences in 2008, Mike and his colleagues from the Chicago OC squad were invited to give a PowerPoint presentation outlining the entire investigation. To Maseth's surprise, his hard-boiled, seen-it-all audience of law enforcement peers gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up response. When Mike told me about the positive reaction he had received from the presentations, he invited me to be a partic.i.p.ant in future sessions. I was intrigued.

My initial reaction was that n.o.body would be interested in my story. What if people thought I was just a guy who beefed on his father? I wanted to get on with my life. But when Mike called me about a law enforcement conference in California, I decided to give it a try. I sat down with Mike and Luigi and went over the highlights. We put together a tight presentation. At first I was nervous telling my personal story to a roomful of strangers. But then I couldn't believe the response and the empathy we received, especially during the question-and-answer period afterward. It was remarkable. My family and a few of my friends also urged me to tell my story. They felt it was a moving family tale and a story of courage. Yet I didn't feel what I did was courageous. I did it only because it was the right thing to do. courage. Yet I didn't feel what I did was courageous. I did it only because it was the right thing to do.

Lisa said something that made a lot of sense. I needed to tell my story because there are people in similar situations, trapped inside their own family secrets. There are people out there who are afraid to stand up and speak up against abusive family situations. They feel as if they're locked in a cage of secrecy, and there's no way out. I believe my story shows there is is a way out. What is important is that it doesn't have to be the wrong way out. a way out. What is important is that it doesn't have to be the wrong way out.

With my father safely behind bars, I live with both the relief and the regret. Turning against him is something I will live with for the rest of my life. I've never felt good about cooperating. To this day I carry his picture in my wallet. I look at it wis.h.i.+ng things could have been different.

It will never be over between us. I know that one day he'll be waiting for me at the gates of heaven or h.e.l.l, hoping to finish this. And if he becomes a ghost, an angry ghost, he'll be on my doorstep haunting me forever. But at least now he isn't in a position to hurt anyone else or bring any more misery to my family. It's like he said one day in court: "My son, he don't scare easy."

On Tuesday, March 23, 2010, thirteen months after my father was sentenced to life plus twenty-five years, a team of U.S. Marshals, FBI agents including Mike Maseth, and a locksmith dropped in for a surprise search at my father's former residence at 14 Meadowood Drive in Oak Brook, catching his wife, Diane Cimino, completely off guard. The warrant prepared by Funk was served by the marshals. They were looking for hidden compartments containing cash or other valuables. was served by the marshals. They were looking for hidden compartments containing cash or other valuables.

During the time leading up to the raid, I kept in touch with Mike. I worked with the FBI to help them find my dad's hidden money. The three of us-my brother Kurt, Uncle Nick, and I-independently cooperated. Our reason for wanting to help stemmed from the trial. My dad's defense was that Uncle Nick, Kurt, and I had set him up and conspired to keep him locked up for life so that we could steal his money. We took this seriously and wanted to prove that he was lying.

I received a call from Mike Maseth the day of the search of the Oak Brook home. I told Mike that since the entire bas.e.m.e.nt of the house was paneled, he should pay attention to any pegboard or drywall screws next to a wine rack or behind a framed picture. As the marshals searched the bas.e.m.e.nt, Mike concentrated on other parts of the house. While searching the garage and checking out the cars, he received a text message from one of the marshals who was in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

"Mike, you need to come down here."

When Mike failed to respond immediately, another text arrived from the marshal.

"No. You really need to come downstairs now."

As Mike entered the bas.e.m.e.nt, he saw an X-Box 360 set up in the TV area where my father's kids played their video games. To the left of the television, a framed piece hung on the wall containing approximately half a dozen family photos. After the marshals popped the drywall screws behind the framed piece, they struck pay dirt.

Behind the picture frame was a hollowed-out storage compartment. Inside was a box filled with envelopes containing hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash. In addition, black velvet bags of jewelry and loose diamonds were retrieved. There were guns, one of which was clean and ready-wrapped in cloth. (Whenever we stored guns, we always made sure they were clean so as to be free of any tell-tale fingerprints.) They were what we called "throwaways," 2- and 5-shot pistols, easily concealable in the palm of your hand, that fired .22 long ammo. There were also microca.s.sette recordings my father made. (According to my sources, some politicians were nervous about what was on the tapes.) Ironically, my father had secretly taped his unsuspecting partners whenever he wasn't around to witness firsthand what business was being transacted. called "throwaways," 2- and 5-shot pistols, easily concealable in the palm of your hand, that fired .22 long ammo. There were also microca.s.sette recordings my father made. (According to my sources, some politicians were nervous about what was on the tapes.) Ironically, my father had secretly taped his unsuspecting partners whenever he wasn't around to witness firsthand what business was being transacted.

While Mike searched the premises, we kept in touch by cell phone. Hearing about the cash find made sense to me. It reminded me of the times Grandma Sophie used to tell me that whenever Diane needed money, she'd head downstairs to the bas.e.m.e.nt. The money she brought upstairs smelled moldy-or m.u.f.fah m.u.f.fah-as Sophie would say.

The stash included twenty-seven $1,000 bills dating back to 1928. These bills were last printed in 1945, and while the Federal Reserve stopped circulating them in 1969, they remain legal tender. Since no Federal Reserve Notes have ever been declared invalid, if you had one, technically you could still spend it, which would be foolish because now they are worth between $1,100 to over $2,000 to collectors. (In 1969 President Nixon signed an executive order suspending distribution of high-denomination notes as a way of fighting organized crime, by making it harder to move large amounts of currency.) After discovering the bas.e.m.e.nt stash, Mike moved upstairs with a marshal to Diane's bedroom, where they encountered a locked rolltop desk, which the locksmith had to open. They found approximately $26,000 in cash in a drawer. This brought the cash total recovered on 14 Meadowood Drive to $728,481. Later that day, the marshal's search uncovered another $110,000 in United States Savings Bonds.

While my father's cash haul was quite dramatic, it didn't match the value of the nearly one thousand pieces of jewelry and diamonds hidden behind the picture frame in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Most of it still had inventory tags. There were expensive watches and fourteen signet and diamond rings, some worth between $30,000 and $50,000. Much of the jewelry was believed to have been purchased by my father or collected as collateral for juice loans. It's doubtful that he was involved in a jewelry heist. and $50,000. Much of the jewelry was believed to have been purchased by my father or collected as collateral for juice loans. It's doubtful that he was involved in a jewelry heist.