Funk did not respond verbally, but the look he shot Schweihs spoke for itself.
Seated near Schweihs was another federal prosecutor, Amarjeet Bhachu. Bhachu, a Sikh, wore a turban, which further irritated the irascible gangster.
“Where are we, in a foreign country?”
Schweihs’s trial was scheduled to start in October 2008, with Funk leading the team, and prosecutors Bhachu and Marny Zimmer backing him up, but the German wouldn’t make it—lung cancer and a brain tumor claimed him six weeks later. His funeral was marred when the body was delivered late to the mortuary. His family, already upset that Schweihs had passed away without any family members present, was more distressed when his funeral was delayed after the Cook County medical examiner, by regulation, demanded that the body be examined because Schweihs had died in custody. “Mobster’s Late for His Own Funeral,” the Sun-Times headline smirked, highlighting that the German was someone only a mother or a close family member could love. This is the same Schweihs that mob boss Jimmy Marcello referred to as “Hitler,” as in “Give it to Hitler,” the order to murder someone. An anonymous “mourner” showed up at the funeral parlor and was asked why he attended. He replied, “I just wanted to make sure he was dead.”
By September of 2008, with Frank Schweihs dead and buried, Judge Zagel quashed the notion of a Family Secrets retrial for four of the defendants, clearing the way for final sentencing. But prior to his sentencing, my father would pull one more stunt that would land him deeper in federal solitary confinement. As a result of a bizarre eighteen-page letter that was smuggled out, typed up, and e-mailed to Frank Coconate, a Chicago political activist and longtime friend of both me and my dad, the letter and additional information emerged indicating that my father intended to make good on his threat to kill Funk. He was then transferred to the MCC’s toughest lockdown.
Coconate and I had a long history dating back to when we both worked for the city of Chicago. My dad took an instant liking to Coconate, one of my closest friends and running buddies, a brash personality with a history of taking on local Chicago politicians and city officials. Coconate was one of the few among my friends who hung out socially with my father and Diane in Florida, where the Calabrese family vacationed.
A gadfly, Coconate, after receiving the text via e-mail, surrendered the contents of the note to local ABC newsman Chuck Goudie. Whether or not the opening sentence, “Hi to my friend how are you and your family doing?” is a veiled threat to Coconate’s family, most of the stream-of-consciousness writing is directed at trying to enlist Coconate to take to the streets and investigate the dangling factors involving my father’s case. Part of the text is fixated (to the point of obsession) on the “disappearance” of a stable of antique cars that my dad had stashed in Huntley, Illinois.
Throughout the trial, my father maintained that I had stolen his automobiles. The topic persisted until Judge Zagel, with the jury removed, dealt with the subject by calling witnesses and trying to get to the bottom of his accusations. Failing to find any relevance to the case or to my father’s culpability, the subject of his missing antique cars was set aside.
The Coconate letter itself is a fascinating study. On one level, it’s the ramblings of a maniac. On another, it’s a mad manipulator at work. He sets up the letter by baiting Coconate, an extremely jealous man involving anything to do with his wife, whom I dated in high school.
While I was away at Milan, with my son, he told me some ridiulas [sic] lies about you and your wife.… I would like to tell you what he said, but I would rather tell you in person about you and your wife. You will not be happy.
Throughout the letter are a series of questions and reminiscences put to Coconate.
Do you remember when you would come by the house, with my son, and your wife, [did you] ever see me mistreating my boys or their wives?
Question. You remember how Jr. was so humble, and kind to me when we were at Miland [sic]? Did you not see him hug and kiss me, and tell me that he loved me?
Question. Tell me everything you can in regards to Frankie telling you how he wanted to set me up.…
Again please think hard. I want you to please tell me anything you can about my son Kurt or his brother Frank. If they were involved in buisness(es) [sic] …
Do you know if Jr. has been spending a lot of money? And where has he been spending it at?
Toward the end of his frantic screed, my father goes on a religious rant that twists his interpretation of Christianity and the Bible (paraphrasing Mark 13:12) to fit his circumstances. This from the man who referred to the Apostles’ Creed as “Apollo Creed.” He goes on in part,
Did you ever read the Bible? If you read it you would understand how smart those people 2,000 years ago were. I started reading it because a could [good friend] of mine sent it to me a month after I was locked up. It’s amazing, how the Bible tells you things about what’s happening in our lifes [sic] today, that was happening then. It also tells you in the Bible that the son will betray father, father will betray son, brother will betray brother, along with other family members. All because of money and earthly material things.
Now in solitary confinement in an environment reserved for terrorists and enemies of the state, and because of his veiled threats to us and his extraordinary direct death threat to a federal prosecutor, my dad is now closely monitored and restricted to one visitor and one fifteen-minute phone call every couple of weeks.
With prosecutor John Scully retired and prosecutor Mitch Mars deceased, it was left to Markus Funk to handle all of the Operation Family Secrets sentencing and other posttrial litigation. My father wasn’t the first of the Operation Family Secrets defendants to be sentenced. Preceding him was Dennis Johnson, described as a “bit player” and the one bright spot among the eleven indicted co-defendants. He received six months in federal prison for his part in converting video poker games into barroom gambling devices while working for Jimmy Marcello’s M&M Amusement. Johnson was remorseful and vowed to change his ways.
“Take a chance on me,” he pleaded with Judge Zagel. “I’m a great person, a good person. I help people whenever I get a chance.” While the judge took that chance, Johnson’s partners weren’t as fortunate. His brother Thomas Johnson and Joseph “Family Man” Venezia received thirty and forty months respectively.
Mickey Marcello received eight and a half years for his part in gathering information for his imprisoned half brother, including his help in instituting four thousand dollars in monthly hush money payments to my uncle’s family. Nick Ferriola, one of my father’s street crew errand boys, received three years. Although the jury was deadlocked on Paul “the Indian” Schiro’s role in killing his friend Emil Vaci, he was sentenced to twenty years. Anthony “Twan” Doyle was sentenced to twelve years. His annual police pension of thirty thousand dollars was revoked. The combined restitution and forfeiture amount for the Family Secrets defendants totaled over twenty million dollars. In addition, the prosecution made the novel request that the estates of the non-career-criminal victims be reimbursed for the lost wages resulting from the homicides. Judge Zagel agreed with Funk’s legal maneuver, and held the defendants additionally responsible for an additional seven-million-dollar restitution award.
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 glasses strangely tied around the back of his head with a torn strip from a white undershirt. 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 assigning 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 God thirty-two years ago when you slit his throat?
“You broke my heart, but you’ll never take away my dignity,” she added.
“God 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.
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 passion, 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. Nobody 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 restitution to the victims of crimes committed prior to certain restitution laws being enacted. Judge Zagel overruled everything, citing the restitution 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 finishing 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 hellhole,” 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. God 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.
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 assigned 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 assumed the bench. Watch him go in and out of different personalities. His bottom jaw juts out. His teeth clench. His eyes get glassy.
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.
“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.
Operation Family Secrets: How a Mobster's Son and the FBI Brought Down Chicago's Murderous Crime Family Page 28
