Friends of the Family (23 page)

Hynes agreed to Mauskopf’s request; Brooklyn would take the case. There was no way two killers were going to walk. Both men were indicted for murder by Hynes’s office; Polito chose to be tried by a jury, while Fortunato put his fate in the hands of a judge. In 2007 the judge found Fortunato guilty of murder—one day after a jury had acquitted Polito on the same charges.

But when Mauskopf called Hynes, Vecchione wondered if the Feds might see this case as the model for the mafia cops. Under this scenario the U.S. Attorney had little to lose by pursuing a RICO case against the cops. Even if they failed to make it stick, they knew that Hynes’s office was there to cover their misjudgment. And if they succeeded, he had to admit, the penalties faced by the cops would be much more severe than anything possible under state law.

As far as he was concerned the deal he’d made with Mark Feldman was still in effect: Even if the drug investigation going on in Vegas allowed the Feds to connect the dots and beat the RICO time problem, Brooklyn would still get the Hydell murder. That’s where it all started, with Betty Hydell. And solving that particular case was Tommy’s passion. As long as they got that one, Vecchione would be thrilled to see the Feds put the cops away for a couple of hundred years.

But somehow, he just didn’t believe it was going to work out that nicely.

On May 26, 2004, Burt Kaplan was
sitting in a cell at the Metropolitan Detention Center in Brooklyn. His presence in Brooklyn was mostly his bad luck. Apparently he was being transferred out of the Allenwood Federal Correctional Complex in White Deer, Pennsylvania, for disciplinary reasons—he’d paid a prisoner $1,000 to assault another inmate—and the MDC was a convenient waystation. This was the opportunity the task force had been waiting for. Kaplan fell from heaven. Through Feldman, Bill Oldham had arranged for the One-Eyed Jew to be held there while he made his approach. Several months earlier Oldham quietly had taken an earlier shot at Kaplan, visiting him at Allenwood. Kaplan had made it clear at that time that he wasn’t interested in making a deal. But Oldham persisted, hoping time would wear him down. So as soon as Kaplan had gotten settled at MDC, Oldham called Dades. “The old man’s in Brooklyn and I’m gonna go see him,” he said. “Want to go with me?”

It was a very nice invitation. And completely unexpected. By this time the rift between the Feds and the state had become obvious and Dades wasn’t interested in playing sidekick to the Feds. “No, that’s all right,” Dades told him. “You go ahead.”

Two days later Oldham called again. He’d been to see Kaplan, he said. Apparently the meeting had gone well, because this time Oldham told Dades he thought Kaplan was going to come on board. Dades didn’t believe it. The guy had resisted several years of offers from heavy hitters, and now he was going to flip after a single visit from Bill Oldham? That didn’t make sense. “You sure about that?” he asked.

“He wants some time to think about it,” Oldham said. Kaplan’s lawyer was going to call him with his answer.

That was a phone call that apparently never got made. So Oldham decided to try him again. Three’s a charm. But this time he called Joe Ponzi. “What are you doing, Joe?” he asked.

He’d caught Ponzi in the midst of a hectic morning. “Bill, what kind of question is that? What am I doing? I got a hundred people here doing a gazillion things. I don’t know whether to shit or go blind, that’s what I’m doing. What do you have in mind?”

“You got time to take a ride?”

Ponzi laughed. “Take a ride where, Bill?”

“Prospect Park. It’s nice outside, we’ll take a walk.” Oldham paused, waiting for a laugh that never came, and then added, “Wanna go see Burt?”

Now he had Ponzi’s attention. “What?”

“I’m going over to MDC to see him. You can come with me.”

Ponzi’s heart started racing. He’d been spending too much of his life running the division, piling up paperwork. Even in this investigation just about all of the work he’d done had been administrative. This was his chance to get a piece of the action. “When?”

“Be outside the building in five minutes.”

Joe Ponzi and Bill Oldham are about as different as sugar and lemon. Ponzi is buttoned-down in dress and manner. Old-school all the way. In the many years that Vecchione had worked with him he couldn’t remember a single time Ponzi had walked into his office when he wasn’t wearing a tie and jacket or his hair was less than perfectly trimmed. The man just exuded professionalism. He spoke softly but firmly and always treated people with respect, even when he was talking to a real lowlife. And he had quietly compiled an enviable record of putting away bad guys.

On the short drive over to MDC Ponzi wondered if he was making a mistake. He wasn’t properly prepared for this meeting. He liked to know
what he wanted to know long before he walked into a room. He liked to know all the details before he asked his first question. He’d done his homework—he’d read Casso’s 302s and all the reports about Kaplan he could find—but he wished he’d had some time to figure out the best way to deal with the old man.

But there was no way he could have turned down Oldham’s offer. No way. From everything he’d read or been told about Kaplan he found him to be an absolutely fascinating figure. A dying kind. He wanted to see what the old man looked like; he wanted to hear the tone of his voice, the way he used the language. He wasn’t even certain he’d have the chance to speak with him.

And in truth he wasn’t really very hopeful that he could do what Feldman and Oldham and who knew how many other people had failed to do: convince Kaplan to grab a future. He just didn’t have enough ammunition. He and Vecchione had spent considerable time talking about what they could offer Kaplan, how they could make nothing sound like something. Obviously, they would give him immunity from any state prosecution, but that was like offering a drowning man a cold drink. They both knew that the only thing that might entice the old man was a reduction in his federal sentence, and the state couldn’t make that promise. Ponzi hoped that Oldham’s presence at this meeting might reassure Kaplan that the U.S. Attorney was willing to cut a deal.

Before they got to the imposing building on Twenty-ninth Street, near the Gowanus Bay, Oldham told Ponzi about his previous meetings with Kaplan, sounding positive but leaving Ponzi with the impression that the chemistry between him and Kaplan hadn’t been good.

Ponzi, Oldham, and a special investigator from the Eastern District named Joe Campanella waited quietly for Kaplan in a small conference room. Oldham had arranged for the old man to be brought down. Ponzi had spent a sizeable chunk of his life in colorless rooms just like this one, waiting for another bad guy to show up and tell his story. Finally Kaplan arrived and stood in the doorway. He was smaller than Ponzi had imagined, about five-eight and thin. He was wearing an orange MDC jumpsuit and dark-rimmed glasses. He looked a lot more like a Jewish grandfather from Brooklyn who’d worked a lifetime in the garment district than a career criminal. Put a pair of glasses on Robert Duvall and you’ve got Burt Kaplan. One thing surprised
Ponzi: The One-Eyed Jew appeared to have two pretty good eyes. Whatever was wrong with his eye, it wasn’t an obvious deformity.

Kaplan saw Oldham sitting at the table and shook his head, clearly unhappy to be there. “Mr. Oldham,” he began, “I told you we can’t be doing this. We tried this before and I can’t be seen here like this, talking to you.”

That was part of the prison code: Spend too much time talking to law enforcement and people begin to believe you’re cooperating. That just made life a little more dangerous. Looking at Kaplan, Ponzi decided he was both surprised and truly angry. Obviously he hadn’t agreed to this meeting. So much for Oldham’s claim that he was ready to roll over.

“Please, Mr. Kaplan, come in.” Oldham was equally polite. “Just give us a few minutes. I want to introduce you to a few people.” Reluctantly, Kaplan sat down. After Oldham had made the introductions, he handed the meeting to Ponzi. “Joe, why don’t you tell him?”

Joe Ponzi estimates that in his career he’s conducted more than 2,500 polygraph tests and at least as many interrogations. He knew the drill. “Mr. Kaplan, the Brooklyn District Attorney’s office has unearthed some evidence about Louis Eppolito and Steve Caracappa that’s breathed some new life into that investigation…”

Ponzi was careful not to reveal too much. His rule about that was clear: You want to get information from the subject; you don’t want to provide information.

“…and the state is now working in conjunction with the Feds on this investigation concerning the allegations against these two police officers.”

Kaplan put his palms on the table and leaned forward. “Mr. Oldham knows…what’s your name again?” Joe Ponzi. “Mr. Ponzi,” Kaplan repeated. “With all due respect, I’ve been down this road with Mr. Oldham before. The night I got arrested for the pot case”—when he said that Ponzi could see his whole face tighten into a snarl; obviously he was still furious about that conviction—“that night I got pitched by the FBI, the DEA, the DA, every chief and inspector from the police department; I had more business cards from law enforcement in my pocket than I ever seen in my life. Every one of them, they told me I could go home that night. All I had to do was tell them whatever it is they think they know about these two guys.” Ponzi noticed that he was careful not to confirm that he actually did have information about the case. “I told them and I’ll tell you now, no disrespect,
I don’t mean to hurt anybody’s feelings. But I’ve done seven years and I can do the rest. If God is good I can do the rest of this. See, I live my life a certain way. That’s the way I choose to live. And I could never put myself in a position where I would have people calling me a rat or saying that I turned my back. Nobody’s gonna accuse me of going bad.”

“Going bad,” to Kaplan, meant cooperating with law enforcement. There it was again, Ponzi thought. The code.

“You know what?” Ponzi replied, leaning forward just slightly to show he was not intimidated or dissuaded, knowing the importance of his body language. “If that’s the code you’ve chosen to live by, I could respect that, but I’m missing something here.” He had Kaplan’s attention. He stared right into his eyes. He spoke evenly, never raising his voice. “First of all, if my memory serves me correctly, the infamous Mr. Gaspipe Casso flipped on you. That’s first. Second of all, when he flipped he admitted that he’d put out a contract on you while he was on the lam.” He paused, letting his words bounce around the room. “You, his so-called friend for life. You, who met him through Christy Tick. You, who’s been around these guys your whole life and believe in whatever it is they believe in. He put a hit out on you.

“And then, then who are we talking about here? These two guys are cops. We’re not talking about wiseguys.” Ponzi was very careful not to tell Kaplan that the only thing he had to do was tell him about the two cops. That wasn’t the way it worked. There is no such thing as conditional or limited cooperation; it’s all you know or no deal. But he wanted to put as much emphasis as possible on Eppolito and Caracappa. “Mr. Kaplan,” he continued, “this is different. We’re talking about two guys who had shields and guns in their pocket and swore to an oath. These guys not only were supposed to uphold the law, but they had a responsibility to every other cop and they betrayed them…”

On occasion Bill Oldham tried to say something, but every time he opened his mouth Kaplan would either put up his hands to block him, meaning “I don’t want to hear what you’ve got to say,” or would simply look at him and scowl. Ponzi got the feeling—that’s all it was, a feeling—that Kaplan was at least listening to what he had to say. That there was the beginning of the beginning of a rapport. That was the first step in the big dance.

In this meeting Kaplan revealed only a little about himself to Ponzi, telling him that he was “ninety percent legitimate businessman and ten
percent gangster,” but just as casually claiming, “I been around gangsters my whole life. I lived my life a certain way; you know what I mean. And when I picked up the paper and saw that this guy or that guy had gone bad, it made me physically sick.”

For a first conversation Ponzi thought it was going well. Kaplan had made it clear he wasn’t interested in talking, but he hadn’t walked out of the room. That was something. After about twenty minutes of conversation Ponzi decided to take another shot at him. “Listen, Mr. Kaplan, I just want you to know I couldn’t be more serious about this and the people back in my office couldn’t be more interested and I’m not going away. No disrespect to you, but I don’t want you to think I’m here now and then I’m going to ride off into the sunset. You know, you could very well find yourself at Rikers Island tomorrow, writted out of the federal system and into the state system.”

For the first time, Kaplan reacted to Ponzi. He said evenly, leaving no room for any doubt that he was serious, “Young man, don’t do that. Don’t try to threaten me. I could overmedicate myself any time I want. Believe me, I will commit suicide before you put me in some cell at Rikers.” His whole face was turning red with anger. “I told that guy”—he indicated Oldham—“that I want to go back where I was and play pinochle and bullshit with my guys and take my walks and do what I want to do. I don’t want to be in this place anymore. And you just listen to me: I’m never going to allow anybody to drag me like an animal and throw me on fucking Rikers Island. You understand me.”

It was a statement, not a question. Ponzi nodded, knowing that if he took one more step in that direction he’d be in the shithouse with Oldham. Kaplan had made it clear that he was resigned to spending the rest of his life in prison—on his own terms—and he wasn’t about to be threatened. Ponzi never mentioned another word about changing his living conditions; instead he tried to dig into Kaplan’s mind, to try to understand why he was so offended by the possibility of putting away two rogue cops. “You know, Mr. Kaplan, you look like you’re in pretty good health. Wouldn’t you like to spend the rest of your life at home with your family?”

Kaplan wouldn’t respond to questions about his family during that meeting, perhaps believing that showing any sign of weakness might be taken to mean he would cooperate. Instead he continued to come back to the pot bust that had put him in prison. Almost ten years later he was still
furious about that, insisting that he had been framed. And his attorney was still filing appeals. “I can’t help being bitter,” he said. “I was a pot dealer, but the bales of shit they rolled into the courthouse, that was not my stuff. And then they put this fucking perjurer on the stand. And I defy you to tell me the last time somebody got a sentence like I got on a pot case.”

They went around the block, sometimes talking at each other rather than having a conversation. It was like two gears just slightly out of sync. Each time Kaplan began complaining about his drug conviction or the fact that “Gas” had fucked him every which way, Ponzi quietly tried to put him back on track. “Listen, you know this story has been out there ten years and I have reason now more than ever to believe that it’s true. Let me be honest with you. You and I both know that you hold the key to this thing. I’m convinced for a variety of reasons that the story you can tell is going to be the definitive story.”

No matter how Ponzi approached the subject, Kaplan just wouldn’t bite. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I wish I could help you, but I can’t.” Throughout the meeting, every time somebody walked past the room, the old man looked over his shoulder. Ponzi assumed Kaplan was worried somebody would figure out this wasn’t a simple lawyer-client meeting and put out the word that he was cooperating.