The Quiet Don: The Untold Story of Mafia Kingpin Russell Bufalino (15 page)

I was in the paper as child labor when the strike was going on.

Excuse my typo. I need to know if you put me in your appeal. I don’t care if you do, I just need to know.

Enclosed is a good book.

Respectfully,

Louis Coviello EA6952

May 2, 2007

Mr. Matzel,

I sent you a certified letter on April 11th. The postal service is tracing it now since I never received the green card back. I hope you received it. I have a rough draft of what I wrote. The gist of it is, you need to read the 84 pages that were read to me. It was an interview with Louie about my father and me. He lied many times and they know he committed perjury.

I sent a copy to the street and I will have it sent to you. I have been interviewed 7 times so far. They have tracked down people and verified past crimes.

I think the field agents are being over ruled by their superiors. Their being told to let it go.

If I can’t get a certified letter to you then I’m not sure this will reach you. The bottom line is I told you in this certified letter how you can prove he perjured himself. Its public record. Get those transcripts of those closed door meetings.

Louie said he really didn’t know me or my father. My father and Louie where co-defendants in a law suit in 1969, Louie’s brother Eugene was my best man and my son’s Godfather. My father was also the superintendent of the garbage workers when Louie had the Scranton garbage contract in 1969. This was before the Flood trial.

I read where you hired a lawyer in Pittsburgh. Your money would be better spent by sending me an investigator.

I was interviewed the day before the vote. I knew what Tad Decker meant when he said, all law enforcement agencies have been contacted. We both knew the deck is stacked against you.

If you didn’t receive a certified letter how will you receive this. I’m tired of wasting my time. You think their going to hand you a Gaming License when every political figure that could be bribed was bribed.

Louie never reported the certified letters I sent him and the Gaming Board had a copy of the letters and green card.

Everybody knew Louie was getting the license except you.

Louis Coviello EA6952

* * *

TWO DAYS AFTER
Billy D’Elia testified before the grand jury in Harrisburg, Tad Decker announced at a press conference that he was resigning as chairman of the state Gaming Control Board.

Decker had presided over the creation of what was envisioned as a multibillion dollar industry in Pennsylvania. He had steered the gaming initiative from its infancy to the licensing of nearly a dozen casinos. But now, amid a criminal probe of DeNaples and questions surrounding how he was awarded his license, Decker said it was time for him to step down. His new destination, he said, would be his old law firm Cozen O’Conner, the Philadelphia powerhouse that counted among its dozens of well-heeled clients one Louis DeNaples.

During his press conference in Harrisburg, Decker deflected any criticism of the DeNaples gaming license, saying the state police had signed off his application. His comments appeared in newspapers across the state the next morning, and among those who read the stories was Ralph Periandi.

Retired only five months, Periandi was stunned by Decker’s comments. There was no way Periandi could allow those statements to stand without a response. So the next day Periandi was quoted in the
Allentown
Morning Call
saying the gaming board had all it needed to deny the DeNaples license and that no matter what the police did, it was clear the DeNaples license was predetermined.

“My recommendation was to table this decision in granting a license. I couldn’t tell the board the reason why, but we had a situation where we had an [investigation] that was running its course and we were not in a position to let anybody know. The gaming board had timelines, and we were taking second place to a licensing decision,” Periandi said.

Periandi had been waiting two years to unleash his frustrations, and he zeroed in on Decker and the gaming board, saying, “It seems to me they weren’t concerned about getting the fullest information possible on some of these people.”

Decker’s response in the same article was typical Decker bravado.

“A flat-out lie and figment of his imagination,” said Decker of Periandi.

The state police, in an official statement, supported Periandi, saying the information concerning DeNaples was withheld from the gaming board, and the board knew it. Periandi’s comments were followed by several other stunning revelations, including a report of an ongoing federal probe involving DeNaples and Ed Rendell centering on questionable contributions prior to gaining his slots license.

The
Morning Call
reported on a probe that centered on whether DeNaples had contributed $150,000 to Rendell just prior to gaining a slots license. In addition, several people closely associated with DeNaples gave more than $400,000 to Rendell. Among them was Thomas Karam, an energy executive with ties to DeNaples through a controversial company called Theta Land Corporation. Karam’s business was natural gas, and the Wyoming Valley was part of the vast Marcellus Shale natural gas reserve, the largest reserve of natural gas in the country, which stretched from New York State through Pennsylvania into Ohio, Virginia and West Virginia.

Karam’s prior contributions to Rendell never exceeded $5,000, yet somehow he came up with $150,000, and investigators were probing whether the money was funneled from DeNaples to Rendell through Karam.

Before the grand jury would convene again, in late August, there was yet another stunning revelation. On August 22, 2007, the
Morning Call
reported that Thomas Marino, the U.S. attorney for the Middle District, which included Scranton and Harrisburg, had been recused from a federal probe of DeNaples because Department of Justice officials learned that Marino had given a personal reference to DeNaples for his slots application.

A few days later, the newspaper reported that Marino would resign. Even the most jaded followers of the DeNaples saga could not comprehend how a sitting U.S. attorney would, in good conscience, feel compelled to provide a recommendation for a convicted felon and a man with alleged ties to organized crime.

Marino’s referral was discovered by members of his staff, who immediately reported Marino to Department of Justice officials in Washington, D.C. The DeNaples probe, which also included the Katrina trucks investigation, was transferred to the U.S. attorney in Binghamton, New York.

Marino, who was nominated by U.S. Senator Arlen Specter in 2002, denied he was resigning and would only say that DeNaples was an old friend and he would do the same thing again if asked. Six weeks later, Marino stepped down. He soon landed another job, hired by DeNaples for $250,000 a year as an in-house attorney for the Mount Airy Casino Resort.

Around the same time in Harrisburg, a Catholic priest was being led to the back door of the Dauphin County courthouse. The Rev. Joseph Sica had for the length of the gaming-application process provided an almost comical sight standing or sitting at DeNaples’ side. Assigned by the Diocese of Scranton to serve as the chaplain of Mercy Hospital, Sica instead could be found with DeNaples during nearly every public appearance before the gaming board. Sica would be there supposedly as a spiritual advisor, but, to most observers, he was more of a “bodyguard,” running interference for DeNaples and stepping between him and the media. It was the oddest of sights, a burly Catholic priest acting as a tough guy.

Sica spent the morning before the grand jury and was represented by attorney Sal Cognetti, who happened to be the former U.S. attorney who prosecuted DeNaples in 1977. Others who testified before the grand jury included James Decker, a former Lackawanna County official who was charged with DeNaples in the 1977 case; Sam Stratton Jr., an assistant business manager and the president of Laborers’ Union Local 332 in Philadelphia; and Frank Pavlico, a Scranton-area man who was a close confidant of Billy D’Elia. Pavlico had been charged in the conspiracy case against D’Elia, who would later learn that it was Pavlico who agreed to wear a wire, which recorded D’Elia making a number of incriminating statements.

Although most grand juries operated in secret, Dauphin County authorities had witnesses assemble in a third-floor room that was easily accessible by reporters, who hovered in the hallways. In addition, the district attorney’s website posted the dates when the grand jury would convene, alerting everyone, including the press. Reporters also had help identifying witnesses when Rich Weinstock called out their names to testify.

Unbeknownst to the media and others who had gathered on the third floor, several other witnesses, including former Philadelphia mayor John Street, were brought into the building via a back entrance and through the district attorney’s office to a private entrance inside the grand jury room.

The grand jury would meet again in late September, after which the state Supreme Court once again stayed the case after DeNaples’ attorneys had filed motions with the court seeking to quash the subpoenas and stop the probe.

The request was unusual, but the court ordered a halt pending its review. The court’s order was fortuitous for DeNaples. His Mount Airy Casino Resort was scheduled to open in October, and had he been indicted, there was no telling if the gaming board would have allowed the facility to open its doors. Instead, thanks to the Supreme Court, the opening took place as planned. DeNaples, as expected, was greeted warmly. He said a few words, shook a few hands and then quickly left.

It took the court three months before denying the DeNaples motions and allowing the probe to continue. On December 27, 2007, the grand jury convened for a final time, and among those who testified was DeNaples’ younger brother Eugene, who arrived with his attorney, J. Alan Johnson, of Pittsburgh, another former U.S. attorney from the Western District of Pennsylvania in Pittsburgh.

Three former U.S. attorneys had been hired or enlisted on behalf of DeNaples or a family member to assist with the gaming license or the grand jury. In addition to representing Eugene DeNaples, Johnson testified on behalf of Louis DeNaples to debunk the 2001 federal affidavit linking DeNaples to Billy D’Elia. Peter Vaira, a former U.S. attorney in Philadelphia, was hired by DeNaples to prepare his own background check for the gaming board. And, of course, there was Thomas Marino, who resigned after the Justice Department got word that Marino had provided a recommendation for DeNaples and testified before the gaming board on his behalf.

Following his testimony, upon leaving the grand jury room, Eugene made a wrong turn and walked out into the elevator area, which was filled with reporters. He quickly ducked into an elevator with Johnson, who said the younger DeNaples had no comment.

Eugene DeNaples was the final witness. And now it was up to the grand jury to decide his brother Louis’ fate.

T
HIRTEEN

J
immy Hoffa’s official release from prison was on December 23, 1971, just in time for Christmas.

He had spent nearly five years inside the Lewisburg prison, and by all accounts, he had been a model prisoner before his thirteen-year sentence was commuted by President Nixon on humanitarian grounds so he could care for his wife, who had suffered a heart attack.

Hoffa’s release had actually been years in the making, but it came with a caveat: Hoffa couldn’t “engage in the direct or indirect management of any labor organization” until March 1980. The terms weren’t part of the original deal, and Hoffa only learned about it after he was released. He was furious and blamed a host of “rats” who turned on the one man who had brought the Teamsters to national prominence. The Teamsters was Hoffa’s union, and in his mind, no one should or could run it while he was still alive.

The biggest rodent in Hoffa’s eyes was Frank Fitzsimmons. Once a timid underling, Fitzsimmons grew strong during Hoffa’s absence. The union had more members than ever, more revenues, and even more money in its pension funds. Most important, Fitzsimmons had a friend in the White House. His relationship with Nixon had flourished in just a few short years, and Fitzsimmons was now among one of the president’s staunchest allies and supporters. Nixon had, during the 1971 Teamsters convention in Miami, made a surprise visit to support Fitzsimmons, who was seeking to officially replace Hoffa as Teamster president. With Nixon’s help, Fitzsimmons won, and he repaid the favor during the 1972 election by throwing the great weight of the Teamsters union fully behind Nixon’s reelection bid.

Hoffa fumed. With time deducted for good behavior, he most likely would have been out of prison by 1974 and eligible to seek the Teamsters presidency in 1976. He sent word to Bufalino that he would exact his revenge against Fitzsimmons while regaining control of the union. Bufalino told Hoffa to take the $1.7 million he had just converted from his Teamster pension and spend the rest of his days teaching and playing with his grandchildren, which is what Hoffa told the parole board he’d do to earn his way out to freedom.

Bufalino, like the rest of the mob bosses who sucked off the pension funds, didn’t need Hoffa. His time had passed. The truth of the matter was that everyone was content under Fitzsimmons and his friend in the White House. There was new construction in Las Vegas, of which Bufalino and every major mob boss in the country now had interests, and the Teamster pension fund was now more like a child’s piggy bank, where money could be withdrawn on a whim.

Bufalino knew his old friend was angry, but he firmly believed Hoffa would see the light and simply fade into the sunset. Bufalino had already pulled his cousin William from Hoffa’s side several years earlier. The official story was that William Bufalino ended the relationship because he was tired of Hoffa’s incessant complaining. But the breakup, in September 1967, came a month after Hoffa and Tony Provenzano came to blows inside the Lewisburg prison. Provenzano wanted his million-dollar-plus Teamster pension, which had been revoked following his felony conviction, and he sought Hoffa’s help. Hoffa, after all, was still eligible to receive his pension despite his felony. But Provenzano’s crimes reached a higher threshold, and Hoffa said there was nothing he could do. Provenzano was irate, and he turned to Bufalino for help, and he in turn recommended that Provenzano quiet down. Unbeknownst to Hoffa, the wheels were already spinning toward Fitzsimmons. The Hoffa situation was about to get ugly, but Bufalino had other pressing matters, and they focused on his pending deportation.

IS THIS JUSTICE?

It is our belief that sympathy and reconsideration should be accorded on the plight of Russell Bufalino who is scheduled for deportation to Italy at the age of 69.

He went to school here, registered for the draft, voted, filed income tax and married an American girl. Bufalino has no criminal record except for a few traffic violations, no income tax evasion counts against him. Bufalino did not burn draft headquarters or go around as an anti-war pacifist. He did not cause violent damage to this country as was done by many.

He had been under surveillance by the Federal Bureau of Investigation for the years since the Apalachin meeting. The F.B.I. is reputedly the greatest investigating bureau in the world. Yet, the only thing that Russell Bufalino is being deported for is that they claimed he was 40 days old when he came to this country with his parents.

Russell Bufalino has helped many charitable organizations and many people get into business. Hearsay statements connecting him to racketeering has not been listed in any documentary form. Therefore we feel this action against Mr. Bufalino is not justified.

Mr. Bufalino has an ordinary life span. The few years he has left should be in the country he spent 69 years in.

The Italian American Civil Rights League

The advertisement that ran in the local Scranton newspapers was a desperate though feeble attempt to keep the U.S. government from finally deporting Russell Bufalino. His attorneys, led by Jack Wasserman, had argued his last and final appeal on November 27, 1972, before the U.S. Court of Appeals, Third Circuit, in Philadelphia. Wasserman had managed to delay the case fourteen years, coming up with different motions such as arguing back in 1967 that his client was the victim of an “illegal wiretapping” by the FBI, and that the entire deportation proceeding should be stayed if not entirely dismissed. Wasserman also had argued that if Bufalino was sent to Italy, his life would be endangered.

The Board of Immigration Appeals had denied Bufalino’s request on June 5, 1967, and again on October 7, 1971.

On January 30, 1973, the appeals court upheld the previous deportation rulings and ordered Bufalino to leave the country. The judges’ opinion did not take kindly to the length of time it took to get to this point, and they delivered a scathing commentary on Bufalino’s ability to tie up an immigration proceeding for so long.

“His present attorney has been in charge of the tactics, which have held petitioner in this country despite the fact that he deliberately and falsely asserted United States citizenship,” said the judges.

Out of appeals, and out of time, Bufalino did what he had done several times before. He met with the other heads of the New York crime families and discussed the oversight and division of his businesses. Decisions were made on who would take over his interests in gambling, the Vegas casinos and the garment industry.

He had begun making preparations to fly to Italy when word came that the Italian government determined that Bufalino was not a person of good character and not welcome in the country of his birth. Helping them with their decision was a suitcase filled with $1 million. The cost was high, but worth it. Italy’s refusal meant Bufalino would stay in the United States.

Bufalino had been a major underworld figure since the 1940s, but now, at age seventy, he was never more powerful. He wasn’t a member of the Commission and, to those who knew him best, being tagged as a supreme leader never captured his interest. He was content hiding under the camouflage of his Pennsylvania address knowing that no one, not even the FBI, would ever figure that someone who lived outside of Scranton could wield the kind of power and influence that he enjoyed.

Bufalino was in charge of his growing family in Pennsylvania, which now had more than fifty members. There were old, aging mainstays, such as capo James Osticco, who was arrested at Apalachin with Bufalino; Cappy Giumento, one of his closest confidants and sometimes driver; Joseph Scalleat, who ran the city of Hazleton; and Steven LaTorre, the lone remaining original member who was nearing ninety and in retirement, though still available for consultation when needed. Jack Parisi still lived in Hazleton. The former triggerman with Albert Anastasia’s “Murder Incorporated,” who had fled New York police and lived secretly in that city for years under the protection of Joseph Scalleat, was nearing seventy-five but remained a frightening presence. Only five feet six inches, Parisi began his work as a contract killer in the 1920s in Brooklyn, and since 1926, he had been arrested for a variety of crimes, including extortion, grand larceny, possession of a gun and murder. Following his move to Hazleton, Parisi joined Anastasia in several garment businesses, including the Nuremberg Dress Company and the Madison Dress Company, but he became a member of the Bufalino family and took up where he left off in New York, becoming Bufalino’s most trusted triggerman long before some of those duties were transferred to Frank Sheeran, who also remained an important member of Bufalino’s entourage.

There was also new blood led by William D’Elia, whom Bufalino had grown fond of and treated like a son. Bufalino had no children of his own, and the attentive D’Elia filled that void while serving as Bufalino’s bodyguard.

In addition to his own family, Bufalino still maintained control over the Genovese family in New York, and he maintained a regular dialogue with the heads of New York’s four other crime families.

Bufalino had, as he had for much of his life, avoided any major entanglements with law enforcement though he had one blip in 1974 when he was charged with fifteen other men with conspiring to extort two vending company officials in Binghamton, New York. Bufalino had a vending company, A&G Vending and Amusement, and he sought to erase the competition by bribing them out of business. On April 24, 1974, Bufalino was tried and acquitted of all charges. Three months later, in July 1974, his mentor, Stefano Magaddino, was felled by a heart attack at age eighty-two.

The old don, like Bufalino, was among the last of the Sicilian-born Mafiosi. For more than fifty years, Magaddino ruled over his upstate New York crime family and also maintained his place on the Commission. The faux pas over Apalachin nearly cost him his life. Another slipup, when police found nearly $500,000 in his son’s home hidden in a suitcase in 1968, led to some discontent within his own family. Magaddino and a son, Peter, were already facing bookmaking charges when the money was found, and other family members believed Magaddino was holding out on them. The ensuing friction led to a split that was only resolved when Bufalino agreed to step in and take control over a portion of the family. With Magaddino dead, Bufalino moved quickly to consolidate the rest of his family in Buffalo and their interests elsewhere. By the end of 1974, Bufalino was now directly in charge of three crime families and personally controlled businesses in territories that stretched from New York City to Pennsylvania to upper New York State, Florida, parts of Ohio and Las Vegas.

At seventy years old, Russell Bufalino was at the pinnacle of his career and wielded incredible power.

But then came Hoffa, and
Time
magazine.