“You swear all the time!”
“You will do as I say and NOT as I do, young lady,” she snapped back. “Do I make myself clear?”
I bit my tongue and silently fumed. I had not done anything to deserve being spit on and now my mother was yelling at me. I was at a loss—confused and angry at being caught up in their crazy adult world. I longed for the days when Larry’s shit throwing and masturbation were our biggest worries.
Returning to the matter at hand—the studda bubba’s identity—my mother regained her composure and inquired once again. Unfortunately, even though I had been just inches from her face, I could not identify her. Of course, my inability to focus on her may have had something to do with having spit in one eye! In my child’s mind, she was a nameless studda bubba, impossible to distinguish from the others who ambled about town in similar dress. Aside from her ability to spew like Ali Baba’s camel, my spitting studda bubba did not possess any other indentifying characteristics that could assist my mother in finding her. Over the next year or so, I located several possible candidates. In the end, however, the anonymity of the studda bubba “look” allowed her to escape my mother’s considerable fury.
Thereafter, I found myself on the defensive anytime I encountered one of these mysterious and potentially spitting figures. Besides my newfound aversion to studda bubbas, I also worried about cootie contamination. In an effort to ward off any evil or infectious substances she may have imparted, I concocted a “magic” potion out of rose petals and witch hazel, and bathed my face in it for three days. By the time I went back to school the following week, I felt sure that any cooties had been properly deflected. Yet, despite being cootie-free, I remained very wary.
Captivity
Even in the midst of the public scandal my father had brought into our lives, we somehow managed to settle into a routine with Travis and Dennis, who assimilated nicely into our family. Because of the earlier threats, Travis and Dennis insisted that our outside playtime be limited, but exceptions were made for my sister and me to attend school functions. Jeannette’s 1971 school parade and picnic was one such exception.
As my first year of school came to a close, I looked forward to marching in Jeannette’s annual school parade. This decades-long tradition, which is still an annual event, affords all of Jeannette’s schoolchildren the opportunity to celebrate their academic accomplishments as well as their place in the community. Schoolchildren from first through twelfth grades walk with their fellow students and teachers down Clay Avenue in parade formation. Parade floats, created by the graduating seniors, highlight the end of the event. After the hours-long parade, schoolchildren and their families then migrate en masse to Kennywood Amusement Park on the outskirts of Pittsburgh to revel in a day of fun.
Although security for our family was a consideration, my mother insisted that we be permitted to attend the end-of-year celebrations. After much haggling between our mother and our “protectors” over security concerns, it was finally agreed that we could attend the events. My mother solicited the help of her best friend, Penelope, who accepted the task of watching over me while Bonnie escorted my sister to the adult section of the park.
Penelope arrived at the agreed upon time and was immediately handed a white Mickey Mouse t-shirt, which my mother insisted she wear. Penelope, always a fashionista, balked at wearing the adolescent shirt, but finally gave into Bonnie’s insistence. Apparently, Mickey was part of the security plan. With my mother and Penelope dressed in white, Vanessa and I donned red Mickey shirts. Our easily distinguishable outerwear allowed our protection detail to monitor our movements throughout the park. Temporarily unconcerned with the behind-the-scenes maneuvering, Vanessa and I made the most of the day. Thankfully, both events went smoothly. For a few hours, my sister and I forgot the troubles awaiting us at home.
While Bonnie struggled to provide some sense of “normalcy” for her daughters, Al was often absent from our home. When not with “suits” involved in the case, he could be found in the store conducting the legitimate side of the family business as if nothing had changed. To Bonnie’s consternation, my father’s penchant for gambling hardly slowed during this time, although the constant police presence necessitated that he become much more guarded when conducting his illegal activities. While my mother, sister, and I were limited in our movements, Al had refused personal security. He escaped as often as possible to Pittsburgh, where he freely fed his addictions. The irony of the situation was seemingly lost upon my father. Once again, his dark passengers prevented him from taking the opportunity to reflect on his life choices.
Although he was concerned with the physical welfare of his family, his nonchalant attitude was bewildering and exasperating for all those in close proximity. On one occasion, a long-time friend, Joetta, stopped into the store to make a purchase and visit with my father. Afterwards, Al asked if she had time to watch the store while he went to lunch with a few of the “suits” in attendance. Joetta had previously worked in the legitimate side of our business and was familiar with the store and customers, and so, she readily agreed. As my father left with his entourage, he offhandedly remarked that two of the men would remain behind with Joetta in the store. Curious, she followed him outside and inquired, “Al, who are these men and why are they staying here with me?”
“They’ll protect you and the store.”
“Protect me from what?”
“Well, if someone throws a bomb in the door, they’ll pick it up and throw it back outside,” he quipped over his shoulder while heading for the waiting car.
Joetta was slightly alarmed, to say the least.
This episode was not out of character for my father. He was unwilling or possibly unable to take even the direst situation seriously. His sense of humor never failed him. He firmly believed that something good would inevitably come along and cancel out the bad times. Al saw the world through his own peculiar, carefree lens. Although this was certainly part of his considerable charm, his refusal to outwardly acknowledge the serious and the dodgy was downright vexing.
Even though our world had been turned upside down, Al was confident that our lives would return to normal once the legal proceedings had concluded. Unfortunately, the trial was not scheduled to begin until October 1971. Because of the earlier threats and the studda bubba incident, my parents decided that Vanessa and I would remain confined to the house or store for the remaining summer months. Although afforded some outside playtime under the watchful gaze of our companions, our two-person wiffle ball games and hopscotch marathons became rather monotonous. At home, Vanessa and I passed the time playing board games, reading, and watching television. We lamented our inability to cruise the streets on our bikes and dreamed of the day we could again don our capes and terrorize pedestrians in our fabulous, twin Batmobiles—miniature, peddle driven, black replicas of the infamous Batmobile driven by the Caped Crusader on the television series Batman. To my mother’s dismay, we spent many hours bouncing on the bed and singing our favorite tune: Da Da Da Da Da Da Da Da Batgirls!
Tensions between our parents ran high during this period, since my mother’s temper and drinking escalated in the boredom of confinement. When my father was at home, they would often end up in intense arguments—Bonnie berating her husband for bringing trouble to his family. Al simply shrugged off her accusations and then all hell would break loose. The end-result of most arguments found my mother escaping deeper into a bottle and my father disappearing for a few days. Vanessa and I were left to clean up the broken glass.
As the long, tense, and monotonous summer of 1971 came to a close, my sister and I eagerly anticipated the coming school year and the opportunity to escape the stressful atmosphere of our home life. We were so grateful for the change of scenery that we no longer minded the presence of our security shadows, or even the inevitable questions from our now informed classmates about our bookie father. As most of our classmates had picked up bits and pieces concerning the events during the summer, many we
re curious about what was actually happening. We answered their inquiries with childish explanations, but given the stressful summer we had just experienced, we were somewhat defensive about perceived negative attitudes towards our father. Any potential trouble from classmates was quickly thwarted by my strong and determined sister, who made it clear that she would not hesitate to kick ass if necessary. For the most part, our classmates conducted themselves much better than many of the adults we had encountered.
Trial or Circus?
As October arrived, the Abraham family geared up to celebrate my eighth birthday. Given the boredom of the summer months, our parents decided that an all-day Sunday celebration was appropriate. We unanimously chose Seven Springs Ski Resort as our destination. I awoke on party day to the smell of Syrian pancakes. After a rare family breakfast at home, we piled into the car for the hour-long drive through Pennsylvania’s Allegheny Mountains. Arriving at Seven Springs, my sister and I quickly busied ourselves playing pool, air hockey, and pinball in the game room. Afterward, we enjoyed a few delightful hours in the indoor heated swimming pool, frolicking with our father. Al acted as a floating dock. Vanessa and I took turns climbing up onto his stomach so that we could scan for the coins my mother threw into the deep end. From our floating human perch, we would map out the coins and dive in, hoping to retrieve them all in one breath.
As evening approached, we donned new outfits purchased for the occasion and had a lovely dinner at the resort’s famous Sunday Smorgasbord. After dinner and birthday cake, our parents broached the subject of the approaching trial that was scheduled to begin in a few weeks. Although they believed the worst had passed, our parents were concerned with the possibility that the threats would reemerge. Vanessa and I cringed, hoping that our already restricted life would not become more so.
Jury selection and opening remarks for the prosecution began on Monday, October 18, 1971.10 They were followed by more than a week of testimony. Big Al, who had previously been convicted four times on gambling charges,11 spent the better part of two days answering questions by both the prosecution and the defense.12 After his final day of testimony, our family had a celebratory dinner at home marking the end of his involvement in the case. Our celebration was not concerned with the outcome of the trial, but marked our relief that Al’s part in this bizarre dramedy had reached its conclusion. The jury received the case on October 27, and returned a guilty verdict the following day.
For the Abraham family, the conclusion of the trial signaled a return to “business as usual.” Soon after, our shadows, Travis and Dennis, disappeared from our lives. Vanessa and I were a bit saddened, as their presence had become an everyday part of our lives. With their departure, Al’s illegal dealings were once again out in the open. The store’s television blared with the game(s) of the season, gamblers began calling in for a report on the day’s “spread,” and the sounds of rowdy poker games wafted up from the basement. Vanessa and I were once again writing numbers and running cash up and down the avenue—sometimes via our beloved Batmobiles.
The trial that had so disrupted our family business and lifestyle was quickly relegated to the past. Everyone seemed in a hurry to forget the events of the last year and get on with their lives—everyone except for the Feds. Thornburgh and his task force had scored a major victory by way of the scandalous events that temporarily rocked our hardworking town. As Jeannette residents breathed a sigh of relief at the trial’s conclusion, Thornburgh’s task force celebrated an important legal victory. In a brief, albeit meaningful, paragraph describing the case in his autobiography, Thornburgh reflects on the importance of the case:
The pursuit of the “politico-racket complex” and, eventually, all forms of public corruption was to dominate the efforts of federal law enforcement in western Pennsylvania during the 1970’s. By the time I left office in mid-1975, we had mounted an unprecedented effort against corruption at the federal, state, and local levels.
This effort began on a small scale. An IRS gambling investigation coordinated with the state police and the Westmoreland County district attorney disclosed that a local numbers boss James Chick had paid protection money to Mayor Michael Reihl and Police Chief Arthur Rinaldi of the Borough of Jeannette. The three were indicted in July 1971 and ultimately convicted. Both the indictments and the convictions were the first in the nation under the anticorruption provision of the 1970 Organized Crime Control Act.13
When I first read Thornburgh’s summary of the events, that had so thoroughly rocked my world, I was taken aback by the brief and impersonal account. Of course, my reaction was that of an insider, someone who had lived through the event. The importance of this “first in the nation” case may be fascinating for those studying American law, but for those who lived through the chaos, it was and is part of a very personal story.
I do not fault Thornburgh’s account. He was a crime fighter who did his job well. His detached summary of the case, so complicated for the families of those involved, is just a tiny part of his impressive life narrative. What the summary does not impart is the human side of the story. The legal victory and the facts presented about the major players in the event are only part of the story. For me, the real story lies with the families of the parties involved. Those who silently endured the chaos, embarrassment, and public ridicule that so often accompany scandals of this ilk. For every victory scored by the efforts of our law enforcement, there is always collateral damage, most often to the families.
Over the years, I have cringed countless times as I have watched excited news reports of captured criminals, great and small. I empathize not with the criminals but with their families. Unfortunately, society does not always distinguish between the perpetrators and the innocent family members who are too often caught in the “guilt by association” attitude of the public. Everyone who participates in a criminal act is part of a family—a family that is most often overwhelmed by the acts committed and the consequences of their loved one’s deeds. My family felt this pain, but it could never change our feelings for my father. He was an unconventional parent and a criminal, but I loved him dearly.
Although he had not stood trial, my family still had to endure the consequences of his illegal actions. It was during this period that I finally understood that Al’s business was considered less than honorable by those not infected with the gambling bug. I had never before realized that my father’s adventurous life relegated our family to the seedier side of the tracks. The revealer of this fact came in a cute blonde package: a newfound friend I had met in first grade.
Although I had not seen Gina over the summer of 1971, I was excited to renew our acquaintance as we began our second year of elementary school. Still shadowed by my protectors at this time, and therefore not on many invitation lists, I persuaded my mother to arrange a Saturday afternoon party at our home. Bonnie made up invitations and I passed them out to a few classmates. The following day, Gina approached me on the playground and informed me that she would not be coming to my party. I expressed regret that she would not be attending and suggested that we arrange a play date for the following week. Gina replied, as only an honest and innocent child would, that she was not allowed to play with me at all. When I asked why, Gina told me the truth: “My father said that your father is a bookie and should be in jail. I am not allowed to be your friend.”
Strangely, Gina’s revelation was somewhat freeing. Although disappointed and a little saddened, I finally understood the whispers and strange looks I received from parents after they inquired about my family. That evening, while my sister and I readied for bed, I told her about my conversation with Gina. Vanessa, three years older, had already come to the realization of other people’s perceptions of the Abraham family and offered advice. “This is the hand we were dealt. We can’t change anything but we don’t have to put up with anyone’s shit. Never show fear, hold your head up high, and spit in the devil’s eye,” she declared with a mischievous smile. And with that sage advice given, the bookie’
s daughters began to laugh and sing our favorite tune: Da Da Da Da Da Da Da Da Batgirls!
Vanessa’s bold and pragmatic counsel would serve me well in the years to come. Unlike the spitting studda bubba, I understood her advice to be an expression of the attitude I should adopt and not a directive to debase another human being. Thankfully, I was unaware that the vicious two-legged animals I encountered during the crazy and unsettling summer of 1971 would pale in comparison to the predators soon to come. In a few short years, I would look the devil in the eye.
Five
Troll Under the Bridge
“Always remember, it’s simply not an adventure worth telling if there aren’t any dragons.”
Sarah Ban Breathnach
Damian Doom came into my life from out of the blue. I am not sure if he was a native of Jeannette or a displaced predator looking for new victims, but he appeared suddenly on the Avenue around the summer of my eleventh year. He was a tall, lanky man of about forty with lean, hawkish features, deep brown eyes, crooked front teeth, and long dirty blonde hair that flowed down over his shoulders. He was a mysterious figure whose history was well hidden. The one thing that was commonly known about him was that he liked young girls. Damian was a pedophile.
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