“Sorry,” said Hurst, “I’m not allowed to bring cigarettes into the jailhouse. It’s the rules.” This response did not engender confidence in his client.
“For Christ sakes,” replied Junior, “if you can’t even get me a damn cigarette, you sure as hell can’t do for me what I really need done.”
The message evidently got through, for Hurst immediately turned, left the interview area, and exited the building. A few minutes later he returned holding a brown paper package and handed it to Kripplebauer. It contained a carton of Kools Menthol. Now the two were on the same page.
Not long after, Kripplebauer was transferred to the old Harris County Jail, a foul-smelling, overcrowded facility that Junior, an eminently qualified judge, considered a “horrendous, terrible joint.” Torn mattresses and other makeshift beds were strewn everywhere. Inmate housing areas had migrated into the dining hall, the exercise bullpen, the corridors—the place was a stinking, noisy, wall-to-wall pigsty. Junior was brought in chained to several other prisoners, but something quickly distinguished him from the other newcomers entering the institution, and it wasn’t the Philadelphian’s habitual no-nonsense demeanor. Kripplebauer was a celebrity.
“I hadn’t taken more than a few steps in the joint,” he says, “when some of the inmates started yelling, ‘That’s him! That’s him! That’s the guy on TV.’ They were raising an incredible racket. All through the jail, wherever I went. You woulda thought I was Napoleon or Grant after Vicksburg. I finally got to an area where they had a television on the wall and I realized what all the hoopla was about. There I was on the news. Reports were being broadcast throughout Texas that I had pulled off some of the largest and shrewdest burglaries Houston had ever seen. We were supposed to have walked off with millions. There were some TV accounts saying it was a $5 to $10 million heist.”
Kripplebauer was instantly anointed a serious player, a heavy-hitter, someone who deserved a wide berth.
“A guy walks up to me, an inmate,” says Junior, “and points to the television and says, ‘Is that you up there?’
“I said, ‘Yeah, but I woulda looked a lot better if I’d’ve known the cameras were on me.’”
Between the media coverage and the rare and valuable carton of cigarettes in his hand, Kripplebauer was a star. When a guard escorted the famous burglar to his bunk, an unappetizing slot in a trash-littered corner of a crowded cell, another inmate (the one who had inquired if that was Junior on TV) came up to the guard and said, “No, not there. He’s taking that one.” He pointed to a much better bunk that was off the floor, but already occupied. With the prison guard looking on, the inmate ordered a fellow prisoner to find a new home. Junior Kripplebauer was moving in.
Over the next few days Junior was introduced to the more serious dudes in the jail. Junior’s case intrigued them. It wasn’t often that Yankee gangsters came through the Lone Star State wrecking such havoc. They cautioned him that the “habitual criminal tag” could draw a “life bit.” If he had the cash, they suggested that he hire the best attorney he could. The name of Richard “Racehorse” Haynes kept being dropped.
“Short, classy, and in his mid-fifties,” Racehorse Haynes was currently “the man” in Texas legal circles. He was in the midst of a highly publicized murder case involving T. Cullen Davis, a well-known and eccentric millionaire. Racehorse didn’t normally handle burglaries, but when burglars were able to come up with a $125,000 retainer fee he was more than happy to call them clients.
Haynes and Hurst were able to get Kripplebauer’s bail reduced to $75,000. It wasn’t easy, given the court’s distaste for Yankees who came South to invade the homes and plunder the savings of righteous Texas citizens. The injustice of it all was amplified by what was happening up North. Kripplebauer’s confederates— Bruce Agnew, Tommy Seher, and Mickie —were cut loose with little more than a wink and a nod. Once they hired Steve LaCheen and Neil Jokelson to represent them, the court set bail for the trio at the eminently reasonable sum of $1,000 a person.
According to Junior, “The Texas authorities went crazy when they heard the incredibly low bail that was given up in Philly. They started screaming, ‘They rob our homes, steal our money, pay off those corrupt judges up there, and get out of jail for next to nothing. They’re all connected to the Mafia up there.’”
Jimmy Dolan arranged for a Miami bail bondsman to post bail for Kripplebauer, and after a month’s stay in that filthy hellhole of a county jail, Junior left the great state of Texas and flew home. His wife and friends met him at the airport, and a wild party ensued at the Stadium Hilton Hotel in South Philadelphia. But the good feelings didn’t last. Less than a month later the FBI, led by Bill Skarbek, came knocking at the Kripplebauers’ Cherry Hill home. The federal government also wanted a shot at the larcenous quartet. Junior and Mickie were placed under arrest, taken to Philadelphia, and charged with aiding and abetting the interstate transportation of stolen property for the Houston heist. Though bail was a relatively modest $3,500 per burglar, Skarbek’s surly attitude signaled a far more ominous threat: the Bureau’s determination to take Junior and his crew out of circulation.
Recognizing the severity of the situation, Junior lined up some of Philly’s best legal minds as defense attorneys, including Steve LaCheen, Bobby Simone, and Dennis Eisman. All were crafty, experienced, and usually victorious. They were also expensive. It was a testament to Junior’s reputation as a moneymaker and his uncommon work ethic that such high-priced legal talent would come on board. Once the federal case was added on to his Texas troubles, which required periodic trips to Houston for scheduled arraignment hearings, Junior was shoulder deep in a costly legal quagmire. Around-the-clock production work would be needed to pay for it.
The cost was secondary, however. Junior’s real concern was Mickie. He didn’t want her to go to jail. He related his fear to Bruce and Tommy, and there was no disagreement. If things seemed to be going badly in Federal District Court, they would try to cut a deal that would keep Mickie out of jail.
The Feds brought in their own stable of heavy hitters. Jeffery Miller and Joseph Fioravanti were “ruthless, cut-throat prosecutors” who rarely lost a case. At first the defendants thought they’d get “most of the charges thrown out.” Instead, they “got banged on everything.” Every pretrial maneuver was denied; every courtroom stratagem was defeated. Judge Daniel Huyett began to look as if he was on the prosecution’s payroll. Despite some impressive legal argumentation and innovative tactical gambits by the defense, Junior had been in enough courtrooms to read the signs: “We were going to lose.”
After discussing the situation and their options with his co-defendants and their attorneys, Junior decided they should see if they could “work a deal.” Reluctant, but in agreement, they each pled guilty. Junior received seven and a half years; Bruce and Tommy, five years each. Mickie was given five years probation and sentenced to do two years at the Metropolitan Correctional Center in New York. Even their best efforts didn’t save her from doing time in prison. Judge Huyett, surprisingly, then gave the defendants 30 to 60 days to straighten out their personal and business affairs before reporting to prison. It was not an unusual courtesy in nonviolent cases such as the Houston job, but the judge’s postsentencing latitude presented the newly convicted crew members with a window of opportunity that good second story men couldn’t pass up.
Junior had no intention of reporting anywhere, much less a federal prison. “Fuck that bullshit,” he remembers thinking. “As soon as I report the Feds will try and take me down to Texas so that they can try me for the same shit. They want to bury me. Hell, no, I wasn’t reporting anywhere.”
Kripplebauer, the only member of the crew to be hit (so far) with state charges in Texas, was prepared to go on the run. The prospect of life as a fugitive was vastly more appealing than years, possibly decades, behind bars in a series of unforgiving federal and state penitentiaries. Junior had always been about freedom. If he had wanted to be in a grim, stifling environme
nt, he could have stayed in the dreary coal mines of upstate Pennsylvania. Though his prospective time behind bars looked less onerous, Bruce Agnew agreed to bolt as well, and go on the lam with Kripplebauer. They planned to live off the fat of the land, and if anybody could do it, Kripplebauer and Agnew could. Opportunistic, brazen, and resourceful, they were urban survivors. In fact, Junior had always prepared for such an eventuality.
“I knew I had to find a safe place to keep my money,” says Kripplebauer. “Just in case I had to get out of town quick. There’d be times when I’d have a good bit of cash or some valuable jewelry, and the cops and Skarbek were always likely to come through the front door at any time and vacuum the place. I couldn’t keep it in a bank, and there was little chance I’d be safe leaving it with a friend or relative. I finally decided on the perfect hiding place—a local graveyard. I went to a very old cemetery on the northern edge of Cherry Hill, called Colestown. I went to a remote section of the graveyard that was near a rarely used parking lot and was hidden by an ivy-covered fence. I found a headstone that looked like it hadn’t had any visitors in quite a long time and dislodged it so that I could dig a good-sized hole beneath it that would hold one of those large metal milk containers. I then got a thick plank of wood, put a couple of inches of turf over it and replaced the grave marker. It worked perfectly. I’d visit the grave at night every so often when I wanted to make a deposit or withdrawal. I must have kept anywhere between $10,000 and $30,000 in that steel cylinder over the years. I kept an assortment of guns in there, too, just in case.”
About a month before they expected Skarbek and company to come and pick them up, Kripplebauer and Agnew lit out. It was a momentous decision for both men. For Bruce it was the beginning of the end. As for Junior, it would be many years before he was a free man back in the Philadelphia area, and it was also, for all practical purposes, the end of his marriage to Mickie.
Part IV
The Desperate Years
13. On the Run
KRIPPLEBAUER AND AGNEW traveled west to Pittsburgh, where they reestablished friendships with former colleagues, men like Mike Mullen, owner of Jeff’s Bar in Pittsburgh’s West End, and Richard Henkel, the bar’s manager. Henkel, who had a nose for money and a growing appetite for the big score, would play an increasingly significant role in Junior’s criminal machinations.
In order to reduce their profile, the two Philadelphians eventually rented a cabin outside the city, in the town of Cannonsburg. During their five months in the area, there was a noticeable increase in burglaries in swanky Pittsburgh neighborhoods like Fox Chapel, Sewickly, and Squirrel Hill. K&A men had been feeding off upscale homes in the city for years; the terrain was certainly familiar to Junior and Bruce. Although residential burglaries provided a comfortable living, their best score was a well-stocked Squirrel Hill jewelry shop. The job was particularly noteworthy, not just because of the size of the score, but also because of the masterful workmanship involved in pulling it off. In fact, the heist was so professionally accomplished that local police and private security company officials were left in a state of sheer puzzlement, when they weren’t accusing each other of complicity in the crime.
Henkel, whose criminal resume included a stint at Marion Federal Penitentiary for bank robbery, realized that he had made a good move by befriending the two men on the run. It wasn’t every day that a couple of accomplished K&A burglars fell into your lap. Henkel knew Pittsburgh, he knew where the money was, and he wasn’t bashful about going after it. But finding the right crew to pull it off was another thing. Anybody could grab a gun and do a walk-in—Henkel himself had such proclivities, as time would show. But in addition to moxie it took skill and know-how to pull off sophisticated jobs—and in some cases to foil intricate alarm systems—without getting anybody hurt or caught.
Henkel told Junior and Bruce about a big-ticket item, Lee’s Trading Post, a seemingly nondescript second floor business in the fashionable Squirrel Hill area. Located down a mundane hallway in an unassuming four story corner building, Lee Trading had an exclusive clientele and trafficked in some of the highest-quality jewelry in western Pennsylvania. The place represented a huge payday, but it wouldn’t be easy—the establishment was known to have an extensive and highly sophisticated security system.
The more Junior heard, the more intrigued he became. Henkel’s description of the diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and endless chains of gold and silver on display throughout the store must have seemed like the menu of a four-star French restaurant to a starving sailor. Rarely intimidated by the odds of failure or capture, Junior immediately liked the idea, but the alarm system was nothing to sneeze at. Over the years, security companies had become more astute, developing super-sophisticated security devices and stepping up their efforts to thwart mayhem makers like the unschooled but ingenious idiot savants from Kensington.
Kripplebauer and Agnew went out to Squirrel Hill to check out the landscape. Normally one of the crew would have posed as a customer and cased the establishment from the inside, but Lee Trading was very selective: employees opened the door only for known, well-heeled patrons. Still, the job looked doable, provided they could “turn down” the sophisticated security system the business had in place. A potential score of this size might have tempted them to do a walk-in, but Junior and Bruce used strong-arm tactics as a last resort. They didn’t relish the prospect of hurting anyone, let alone engaging in a full-scale gun battle with the cops if things should go awry. Bold but not suicidal, they never felt any desire to replicate the James Gang’s Northfield, Minnesota, raid of 1876. Kripplebauer and Agnew were the crème de la crème of burglars; stealth was their game. They’d figure out a way.
Months went by as schemes were suggested and rejected, but gradually they put together a plan. It wasn’t elaborate, but it did require more than the two of them could deliver, especially in terms of high-tech capability. They’d need a four-man team: Junior and Bruce, an additional man from Philly with commercial experience, and, most important, a competent “turnoff man.” Turning down the alarm system was the centerpiece of the plan.
Fortunately, one of the best electrical men in the nation lived in the vicinity. Calvin Wayne Shook was part of the Youngstown Gang, a busy and menacing crew of northeast Ohio criminals and burglars who rivaled the K&A Gang in their competency and enthusiasm for second story work and regularly picked the pockets of wealthy midwestern communities. Known as “Jake” on the street, Shook was in his mid-forties and, although physically unassuming, was an unparalleled heavyweight when it came to gadgetry and technology. A connoisseur of complicated electrical systems, he studied intricate electrical engineering manuals as a hobby and developed a lucrative business freelancing his skills to other enterprising businessmen like Kripplebauer.
With Junior’s credentials well established, Shook signed on to do the electrical work, and a fourth man, Bobby Dougherty, was flown in from Philadelphia. Numerous forays were made to the site until Shook discovered the location of the building’s phone lines in a tunnel beneath a heavy metal grate in a back alley. He then went back to Junior’s Cannonsburg cabin and spent the day constructing an intricate cross-wired electrical board for the heist. The next night the crew went back to the alley, helped Shook re-enter the manhole and drop into the tunnel, and stood guard for a couple of hours while he tested various lines with an ohm meter to determine which ones originated in Lee’s Trading Post. Once that critical chore was completed, they went back to Cannonsburg and Shook reconfigured his electrical cutoff board to silence the jewelry store’s alarm system.
On the evening of the burglary, the four-man team arrived in two cars. While Dougherty stayed with the vehicles, monitored the police scanners, and kept an eye out for anything suspicious on the street, Kripplebauer, Agnew, and Shook went to the back alley, where they would do battle with the building’s electrical system and, more important, its security system. The grate was unscrewed and removed, and Shook entered the hole with his tools and cuto
ff board and went to work. Within minutes, Lee Trading’s alarm system had been turned off, and the jewels were good to go.
Junior and Bruce broke into the building and proceeded to the second floor. Shook was sent off to take a walk around the neighborhood. The Youngstown electrical wizard was too valuable to the underworld to keep at the site. Junior was always protective of precious resources; he didn’t want to risk losing Jake if anything should go wrong.
With the alarm system neutralized, Junior had the luxury of taking a crowbar to Lee Trading’s front door. He broke open its heavy locks in less than a minute, stepped inside, turned on the lights, and felt a sudden chill.
“My first thought was fear,” he recalls. “I didn’t think we had brought enough duffel bags. The place was loaded. Jewelry was on display throughout the shop. There was fancy shit on shelves behind sliding glass doors and on tabletops and counters. Everything was wired to alarms, but Jake had already taken care of that. Diamond rings, huge ruby and emerald brooches and pendants, gold earrings and necklaces, everything you could imagine. The back room was filled with huge rolls of gold chains, 14k, 16k, 18k gold, each weighing 25 pounds or more. I had to lift some of them on my shoulder they were so heavy. It was all an incredible haul. The real problem was whether we had brought enough suitcases and duffel bags. It broke my heart to think we might have to leave some good stuff behind. I think we immediately started to take the diamond rings out of these fancy jewelry boxes and throw the boxes away. There just wasn’t enough room. There was too much stuff.”
Kripplebauer and Agnew worked at a businesslike pace, but it took almost an hour and a half to inspect and package the awesome volume of goodies. When they had crammed the two suitcases and four duffel bags they brought with them, they exited the building and loaded up their cars, but not before Kripplebauer did something that would befuddle law enforcement personnel for years to come. He climbed down into the hole, removed Shook’s cutoff board, and replaced the metal grate. The store’s alarm immediately began to wail, but Kripplebauer and his colleagues were well on their way out of the area before the police arrived at the scene.
Confessions of a Second Story Man Page 28
