by Dick Lehr
But all Quinn could do for him was get him a Coke.
Even then, as Quinn edged away and the government’s lawyer got in between them, Flemmi thought there might be a magic parachute. His mind drifted over the years of FBI intervention, back to how Paul Rico got attempted murder charges dropped in state court. Flemmi remembered being tipped off to state police bugs in the Lancaster Street garage, and the time he and Whitey were let out of the race-fixing case. And how the FBI in Boston helped cover up Winter Hill murders in Boston, Tulsa, and Miami. Surely his friends, Jim Bulger and John Connolly, would “get this all squared away.”
But the most Flemmi ever got were prison visits from Kevin Weeks, Bulger’s friend from South Boston, who conveyed the commiseration of John Connolly. The agent wanted Flemmi to know how badly he felt about the FBI letting them both down.
Flemmi never heard another word from Bulger.
BULGER quickly adapted to life on the lam. The wild teenager who sought attention by walking a pet ocelot around the Old Harbor housing project had developed the low to the ground discipline of an army ranger hiding in the jungle. When it was clear that indictments were on the way, he cut all ties with South Boston, except for an occasional call to prearranged pay phones.
Though Bulger was never known for sentimental attachments, it surprised Flemmi that he never heard another word from Bulger as his partner moved from one small city in middle America to another. Still, Bulger had done more for Flemmi than he did for most. He had warned him to stay out of Boston, and Flemmi had foolishly ignored him. It was a dumb mistake, and Whitey didn’t make those.
But Bulger had almost slipped up too. In January, shortly after trooper Tom Duffy put his gun to Flemmi’s temple, Bulger had been driving toward Boston himself. Theresa Stanley had grown tired of traveling on their extended “vacation.” Since the fall of 1994, while Bulger waited to see what would happen in Boston, they had traveled to Dublin, London, and Venice and then toured the southwestern United States. But Stanley was bored with sightseeing and tired of being alone with the aloof Bulger and his long silences. She missed her children and South Boston. In the last couple of weeks Stanley had hesitated to even ask simple questions like, where are we going now? It would only start an argument.
So in January 1995 they were making their way to the edge of Boston in stony silence, driving along route 95 in Connecticut, when Stanley heard a radio report about Flemmi’s arrest. Bulger took the next exit and headed back to New York City, where they checked into a Manhattan hotel. Bulger hung out at the hotel pay phones, getting whatever information he could. Theresa didn’t bother to ask him what was going on.
The next day they drove to a parking lot south of Boston where Stanley got out to wait for her daughter. Bulger said, “I’ll call you,” as he roared off forever. She never heard from him again.
Instead of heading off alone, he picked up his other girlfriend, Catherine Greig, and disappeared into rural America as a balding retired everyman with a younger wife.
On the road again with a different woman, Bulger lived for a while in the Louisiana bayou country and has reportedly been seen in the Midwest and Florida and even Mexico, Canada, and Ireland. Investigators traced phone calls he made from a New Orleans hotel and a restaurant in Mobile, Alabama. He stayed in touch with Kevin Weeks and some family members and even ventured back to the Boston area on a couple of occasions to rendezvous with Weeks. The meetings, which came early on, later in 1995 and in 1996, enabled Weeks to provide Bulger with some false identification and new intelligence about the ongoing investigation. Kevin O’Neil did his part too, funneling nearly $90,000 into Bulger’s bank account soon after Bulger was forced to flee. But no one outside his tight circle heard from him once he dropped off Theresa Stanley.
EXCEPT John Morris.
Morris’s last FBI station before retiring at the end of 1995 was training director at the FBI Academy in Virginia. One October afternoon his secretary told him that an insistent “Mister White” was calling. Ten months on the lam, the brazen Bulger was calling from a pay phone on the road.
He had a short message for Vino: If I’m going to jail, you’re going to jail.
“I’m taking you with me, you fuck,” Bulger said.
“I hear you,” said Morris. That night John Morris suffered a major heart attack. Bulger had nearly killed him with a phone call.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
In for a Penny, in for a Pound
Their cells were side by side on the mezzanine level of cellblock H-3 at the Plymouth County Correctional Facility, number 419 belonging to Cadillac Frank Salemme and number 420 to Mafia soldier Bobby DeLuca. The seven-by-nine-foot cells had gray cement floors and walls painted a dull white. It was late summer 1996, and the racketeering case against the Mafia and Bulger and Flemmi, albeit with Bulger in absentia, was chugging along in low gear. The federal case was in discovery, a pretrial stage in every criminal case when the government discloses to the defense relevant evidence and potentially exculpatory material about the accused. The defense then studies the material, primarily to prepare for trial but even before that to see if it can gut the government’s case by finding legal fault with the way the evidence was developed. If defense lawyers can persuade the judge that all or part of the evidence was somehow obtained wrongly, the judge might throw it out. Depending on how much evidence goes, the case against the accused either shrinks or, better, evaporates.
Salemme and DeLuca huddled over a Sony tape recorder. They’d been given a homework assignment by their Boston attorney, Anthony M. Cardinale. Listen to the tapes, the lawyer had instructed—listen carefully. The lawyer had brought to the prison handfuls of tiny cassette tapes that were copies of recordings the FBI had made during covert electronic surveillances—from 98 Prince Street, Vanessa’s, Heller’s Café, a meeting of two mafiosi at a Hilton Hotel at Logan International Airport, the Mafia induction ceremony in 1989, and others.
Tony Cardinale was listening to the tapes himself, but he wanted Salemme and DeLuca listening too. Their ears were better trained for the Mafia talk. The voices belonged to their guys. All three were looking for a way to challenge the tapes’ admissibility, a way to knock them out of the ring so they could not be used in court. Listen, Cardinale instructed, for anything irregular.
Of particular interest to the lawyer were the tapes the FBI had made by using a “roving bug.” Unlike any other bug, this bug was not fixed in a ceiling or wall or beneath a lamp. Instead, this powerful and portable hand-held microphone could move, inside a dish that FBI agents aimed at people to pick up their conversation, even if they were inside a car or house. The FBI turned to a roving bug when it did not know in advance the location of a meeting, or when it otherwise lacked the time necessary to install a fixed bug or a telephone wiretap. By its mobility, the roving bug was a highly effective brand of electronic surveillance that sent chills down the spines of both guardians of privacy rights and criminal defense attorneys. Cardinale, for one, was no fan. “The roving bug is probably the most dangerous government intrusion,” he said. “In a sense, they’ve thrown out the Fourth Amendment protections. Because if you’re the target, then the government can go anywhere you go. To your house. To your mother’s house. To a church. Anywhere you are, the government has probable cause, a walking search warrant. It’s a vast expansion of electronic surveillance, and it’s a nasty little tool that should not be misused.”
Cardinale had a hunch about the Boston FBI’s use of roving bugs—namely, that the FBI was misusing them. He was convinced that the FBI, contrary to what agents swore under oath to judges, did know far enough in advance where certain meetings were going to take place. The agents knew this, he believed, because they had one or more of their confidential informants attending the meetings. If this were true—if federal judges had been misled—the defense might be able to get all or some of the tapes suppressed.
Salemme and DeLuca took their assignment seriously. Behind the hard green steel doors of their
cells, seated on the thin mattresses of their metal bunk beds or at the tiny metal desks attached to their walls, the men played the tapes. There were hundreds of tapes, and the work was mind-numbing, as they played and replayed the conversations, straining to hear the dialogue.
Bobby DeLuca especially took to the task at hand, and one day, while concentrating on the Hilton-Logan tape, he detected something in the background. He stopped, replayed the passage, and the more he listened the more he became convinced he could hear other voices besides the two targeted wiseguys. DeLuca summoned Salemme, who listened to the tape. Salemme heard the extra voices too. DeLuca wasn’t crazy. Two voices in the background were whispering. It had to be the FBI agents overseeing the taping. Somehow the roving bug they were using from the next hotel room had also captured their voices, and one agent was whispering to the other agent that they should have gotten “the Saint” to give one of the wiseguys “a list of questions.”
Eureka.
DeLuca and Salemme stopped the tape and eagerly placed a telephone call to Cardinale in Boston.
THE MAFIA had been calling on Tony Cardinale for years, and at forty-five, he possessed the seasoning, ego, and stamina to go deep into any contest with the government. By the time of the 1995 indictment of Salemme, Bulger, Flemmi, and the others, he was Boston’s leading mob lawyer. Fond of Hermes silk ties, fine cigars, and scotch, Cardinale relished the combat of the courtroom. He was a lawyer who was best on his feet, seemingly restless behind a desk. It had always been this way for the litigator who’d grown up in Hell’s Kitchen in New York City, the son of a boxer and restaurateur. Cardinale’s father and four uncles ran Delsomma’s Restaurant on Forty-seventh Street between Eighth Avenue and Broadway, popular with the theater crowd, the old Madison Square Garden folks, and the wiseguys from the West Side. His father also trained boxers, and Tony Cardinale grew up under his father’s careful eye, taught to bob and weave, jab-jab, a right, bam! a left hook, bam! Boxing dominated the talk at the restaurant and at home, a railroad-style flat on the third floor of a tenement on Forty-sixth Street, right next to a fish market. Two uncles and their families lived across the street; his grandmother and another uncle lived around the corner. Tony Cardinale ran with the Forty-sixth Street Guys, a gritty, true-life version of the street gangs glamorized in the musical West Side Story. The teen Cardinale wore the late 1950s getup of blue jeans, white T-shirt, sneakers, and garrison belt, a thick, big-buckled belt that could double as a weapon.
Young Tony Cardinale grew up watching the city pass through the doors of his family’s restaurant—fighters, gangsters, high rollers, businessmen—and this was the spot where he first picked up the notion of someday becoming a lawyer. “If my dad met a guy at the door who was a lawyer or a doctor, he would be really impressed,” said Cardinale. “He would be very solicitous, very respectful.
“Something happened, something special about seeing that, because I’d think, as I saw how my father treated people who were lawyers, I’d say, ‘You know, that’s what I want to be, Dad,’ and he’d say, ‘God, if you ever do that, that would be great, that would be wonderful.’”
On a football scholarship, Cardinale attended Wilkes College in Pennsylvania. He wanted to go to law school in New York City, but NYU, Columbia, and Fordham all rejected him, so Cardinale traveled to Boston, newly married, to attend the only school that would take him, Suffolk Law School. He never left the city. Indefatigable, he made law review. In his second year he and classmate Kenneth J. Fishman began working for famed defense lawyer F. Lee Bailey. Cardinale and Fishman became lifelong friends. Bailey called the two “the Gold Dust twins” because they came into the office at the same time and were attending law school together. The mentor thought of Fishman as “the law guy” for his acumen in legal analysis and Cardinale as “the fact guy” for his ability to investigate a case and track down flaws in the opponent’s reasoning. “He had a good measure of self-confidence,” Bailey said later, remembering a young Cardinale. “He’s got good-sized balls.”
Cardinale stayed with Bailey for five years, then struck out on his own in the early 1980s, working the trenches, building on the fast start he’d gotten with Bailey by piling up courtroom experience. Then in late 1983 he took on his first Mafia client—Gennaro Angiulo, of all people. The underboss’s original attorney, in line for a judgeship, had dropped out of the case, and Cardinale got the call one night after Christmas: “How would you like to represent Jerry Angiulo?” It was the big break, and Cardinale was eager. “This was a major league, major league case,” he said. “I want to get in the game, you know. That’s the athlete part of me coming out—if this is the biggest game in town, then I want to be in it.” Just thirty-three years old, Cardinale was the lead attorney in the biggest organized crime case in Boston’s history.
Cardinale went to war. He relentlessly attacked the devastating 98 Prince Street tapes, their quality, their accuracy, all in an attempt to knock them out of court. The trial lasted nine grueling months, and each day Cardinale was on his feet trading blows with the government team led by Jeremiah T. O’Sullivan.
In the end the House of Angiulo had fallen, but Cardinale had made it, even if his hair turned gray during the trial. Just like that he had become the up-and-coming practitioner for the mob. During the 1980s he represented other Angiulos and Vinnie Ferrara, and he commuted to New York to represent “Fat Tony” Salerno. In the early 1990s he joined the defense team of John Gotti, representing Gotti sidekick Frank “Frankie Locs” Locascio. In the 1995 indictment of Cadillac Frank Salemme, Tony Cardinale was again the Mafia’s go-to guy. Flemmi, meanwhile, tapped another leading defense attorney, Cardinale’s law school friend Ken Fishman.
Cardinale was ecstatic to hear from Salemme about their cellblock discovery. He had turned his own office into a quasi-electronics center, with high-quality tape recorders and enhancers, and when he listened to the tape himself, he too heard the whispering that Salemme and DeLuca had detected. Each time he replayed the passage, he felt more certain that he now had a legal smoking gun, something he could use to land a counter-punch against the government. He had technicians enhance the tape, and the background FBI voices were less faint. The two agents operating the roving bug were complaining about the rambling, unfocused conversation under way in the next room between a local wiseguy named Kenny Guarino and a visiting mobster from Las Vegas named Natale Richichi. One agent seemed to tell the other that beforehand they should have had “the Saint” make up “a list of questions of shit... for Kenny to ask him . . . we could, you know, narrow the different categories.”
To Cardinale this was proof that the FBI had at least one—and maybe two—informants participating in the meeting with the visiting Mafia figure from Las Vegas. Cardinale figured that either Kenny Guarino or “the Saint”—a nickname for Anthony St. Laurent—or both, were working as FBI informants. If either wiseguy was an informant, then the FBI had probably known beforehand the location of the meeting at the Hilton. And if that were true, the FBI had not had a valid basis for using a roving bug and had lied to a federal judge to win his permission for one.
Cardinale prepared new court papers and, tape in hand, argued to the judge sitting in the racketeering case, Mark L. Wolf, that a special hearing was warranted to look into possible FBI subterfuge. The documents related to the case were sealed, and the court sessions held to discuss Cardinale’s findings were closed to the public. Cardinale argued that to get another judge’s okay to use a roving bug FBI agents in 1991 had filed sworn affidavits saying they had no idea where Richichi was going to be when he came to Boston on Mafia business. Cardinale, urging the judge to listen to the tape himself to hear the background FBI voices, said, “The FBI knew a great deal more about the events of December 11, 1991, but wanted to protect their source.” The Boston FBI, suggested Cardinale, was possibly “involved in illegal conduct in an effort to conceal the activities of their high-level informants.”
Throughout the fall of 1996 the matter wa
s pursued during court sessions that remained closed to the press and public. Cardinale and a team of prosecutors led by Fred Wyshak engaged in a legal shoving match, with Cardinale seeking to push the envelope while the government pushed back.
During this time Cardinale began to develop an even more ambitious game plan. He believed the subterfuge behind the FBI roving bug at the Hilton was not an isolated event. He felt that for years the FBI had bent and broken all kinds of rules to protect a coterie of informants. In particular he believed that the FBI was especially protective of Whitey Bulger. Cardinale had read the stories in the Boston Globe, and he’d heard all the talk on the street about Bulger and the FBI. He also believed that Bulger had escaped arrest because the FBI let him get away.
All the Bulger talk had gone on outside of court. But Bulger was a codefendant now, and to defend his client, Salemme, Cardinale was deciding to go after Whitey. He would employ the Hilton tape as a battering ram to knock down the wall of secrecy. Cardinale was going after the FBI.
“DEFENSE counsel seeks the disclosure of the identity of various individuals who may have served as government informants/operatives in connection with the investigation and/or prosecution of this case,” the lawyer began a motion filed on March 27, 1997. The papers were submitted under seal, and the discussions before Judge Wolf regarding the FBI and Bulger continued to unfold in secret. Cardinale claimed that all or part of the government’s evidence might be tainted by FBI misconduct, and to get to the heart of the matter the world needed to know about Bulger and the others.
In his motion Cardinale named Bulger and several other suspected informants, such as Guarino and St. Laurent, but not Stevie Flemmi. “I was just a little uncomfortable,” said Cardinale later. “Keep in mind, one of the last things you want to do in a situation like this—I mean this guy is a defendant in the case, and if you believe he’s been a rat essentially his whole life, one of the last things you want to do is to pull the trigger on the guy when you’re not ready, and the guy gets scared and rolls, and he hurts your client. I thought if the finger was pointed at Flemmi too early and he rolled, he could not only try to hurt Salemme but any number of people. It could have been a disaster.”
