At 6:56 that evening Officer Eugene Innocenti looked up from his desk. A cold, wet Brink’s guard looked directly at Innocenti and said, “I’ve been hit for half a million.” Innocenti immediately called his superior, George McGarrity, who unlocked the other handcuff on the guard’s wrist. As McGarrity was freeing Haines, Innocenti was calling the Boston Police. One of the MDC cops noted, “While we were waiting for Boston to get down to our station I had a few minutes to talk to Haines and I could tell you the guy was pretty shook up.” He said that after the robbers had transferred the money and left, he managed to hit the truck’s alarm with his nose, but it was such a desolate area nobody heard it. He then told them how he’d managed to fashion a key to free himself. “It was the most amazing bit of ingenuity under stress I’ve ever seen,” the detective declared.
Boston Police Commissioner McNamara, upon getting the report of the Brink’s million-dollar robbery, immediately called in the FBI. At a one A.M. press conference, the commissioner, wearing a sports shirt and looking bleary-eyed, admitted that authorities had only the barest description of the holdup men. McNamara told a horde of press that when the two guards looked out of the window and didn’t see their Brink’s truck, they figured that Haines had gotten tired of waiting for them and driven the truck to the nearby countinghouse by himself. When he didn’t return in twenty minutes in his own car, though, they began to panic but still didn’t notify authorities. Finally, after half an hour, Gillespie called the Brink’s office. He was told to stay where he was. Boston Police picked up both Gillespie and Kelly minutes later.
McNamara assigned fifty Boston detectives to the case, and the Brink’s company offered a $25,000 reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of any party involved in the robbery. Brink’s spokesman Thomas F. Horrigan admitted that if the robbery had occurred a week earlier there would have been several million dollars in that truck.
PHIL KNEW that those two Organized Crime dicks had cost him, but he didn’t know how much until he read Horrigan’s statement in the evening paper the next night. They were on their way back to the Holiday Inn in Brockton. “Those two fucking assholes cost us at least a million dollars,” Phil remarked sullenly.
Angelo tried to calm him down. “Come on, Phil, we got away with half a mil, nobody got hurt, they have no clues, no leads—they’re fucked.”
“Yeah, now we just have to worry about that fucking loudmouth Kelley. I don’t intend to be his next victim.”
Angelo nodded in agreement. Tony snoozed in the backseat.
“Do you believe this fucking guy?” Phil said, looking back at the snoring Tony and smiling.
“I just hope his Christmas shopping went okay,” Angelo said, chuckling.
“Ours did,” Phil said, and laughed too.
When they got to the Holiday Inn, Phil called Steve and told him to bring the money back to Brockton. They divided the take and put it in stacks of $50,000. When they had finished, there were ten stacks with a few hundred left over.
Phil gave Kelley, who had undergone a miraculous recovery, his stack of $65,000 and another stack of $51,000 for Andrew DeLeary.
“You’ll be able to pay your doctor now, Red, for that miraculous cure he gave you,” Angelo sniped.
Kelley stared at Angelo and walked out of the Holiday Inn.
“I hope it’s the last time I see that piece of shit,” Angelo said.
“We’ll see him again,” Phil said. “You can count on it.”
IT WOULD BE more than five years before Phil would be in the same room with Kelley again but he heard from him much sooner than that. Three months after the robbery, Phil got an alarmed call from Kelley. He started with, “We got trouble.”
“What’s this ‘we’ shit? What are you, French?” Phil said.
“I’m serious, Phil. I’ve been calling DeLeary for the past six days and he’s not around,” Kelley whispered.
“Well, where the fuck is he, Red? You were supposed to watch him.”
“I did. And I told him to lay low, just like you told me. Told him not to spend any money or draw any attention to himself. Told him that and kept an eye on him. Honest,” Kelley whined.
“When was the last time you spoke to him?” Phil asked coldly.
“About ten days ago.”
“Shit!” Phil said into the phone. After a moment of furious silence he went on. “Listen, Red, if the feds got to him, we all go down, you understand? Find him before I do,” Phil threatened and hung up.
Three days after that telephone conversation Phil was sitting in McGrail’s when he spotted Angelo coming in. He could tell just by the look on his face that there was trouble. Angelo gestured with his head for Phil to meet him outside.
“What’s the good news?” Phil asked, knowing only too well that there would be no good news coming from Angelo that day.
“It’s fucking DeLeary,” Angelo spat out. “You know why that fuck-face Kelley couldn’t find DeLeary?”
“No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“Because DeLeary was in the Bahamas, that’s why. He was in the fucking Bahamas with his whole fucking family and all his fucking in-laws, that’s why.”
Now Phil knew they were really in trouble. He groaned and said weakly, “Kelley told me DeLeary was laying low.”
“Ten days in the fucking Bahamas with all the fixings—is that what that fucking mick calls laying low?” Angelo cried in frustration. “What are we gonna do, Phil?”
“Let’s wait and see what develops,” Phil answered. But he knew they had lost control of the situation. The feds had to have found their leak.
He also knew that DeLeary could finger not only Kelley, whom he didn’t care about, but Angelo. Phil cared a lot about Angelo and was angry at himself for letting Angelo go to those meetings with DeLeary. Phil had said he’d take care of both Kelley and DeLeary if it ever came to this, and now he looked for a way to do just that.
AFTER DELEARY’S BAHAMAS EXCURSION, the feds indeed knew who the inside man was and they turned the screws on him. Upon his return from vacation, they moved in quickly, making it obvious they were watching his every move around the clock. This made Phil’s decision to whack DeLeary difficult to accomplish, and whatever hope he might have had that the cowardly Kelley would whack the guard to protect himself also disappeared. Phil received a frantic late-night call from Red Kelley near the end of April 1969. “Phil, it’s Red. We got more trouble.”
“What the fuck are you doing calling me, asshole? Your phone is probably bugged and now you’re dragging me into this mess,” Phil shouted.
“Dragging you in? You were the one who dragged me in,” Kelley said.
“What now?” Phil asked.
“DeLeary called me and he’s about to crack,” Kelley whispered.
“He called you? That stupid fuck has everyone but Efrem Zimbalist Jr. tailing him and he called you? He’s fucking dumber than I thought,” Cresta yelled into the phone.
“If he turns, Phil, we all go down.”
“What do you mean, Red? DeLeary doesn’t know dick about us. The only way we go down is if you roll.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me, Phil. I’ll just deny everything, but he did meet with Angelo, you know,” Kelley said quickly.
There it is, Phil thought, that’s the reason for the call. Kelley was dangling Angelo out there to see if Phil would take the bait. There was a long pause. “You want me to take out DeLeary, Red? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Either that or your wop buddy with the big mouth takes a tough fall.”
PHIL WANTED to leave Tony out of this development since DeLeary didn’t know about him. Hoping to keep it that way, Phil called only Angelo, and they met that night at McGrail’s. “I just got a phone call—” Phil started to say, but Angelo interrupted.
“Kelley?”
Phil nodded.
“What’s the deal?” Angelo asked.
“He wants me to whack DeLeary.”
“No, but he’s about to,” Phil said. “That’s why Kelley wants me to whack him before he implicates you and him. I’m sorry, Ange. I never should’ve let you meet DeLeary.”
“Why doesn’t Mr. Tough-guy whack DeLeary himself?” Angelo asked.
“The feds are watching both of them. DeLeary, for fucksake, called Kelley at home!”
“So Kelly wants you to do his dirty work? Fuck it. Let’s do what we have to do. I don’t feel like spending my life in Walpole.”
They headed out onto Kilmarnock Street, just as the Red Sox crowd was letting out.
THE FEDS, certain that DeLeary was their man, closed in. First they began to interview his friends and neighbors, and they left no doubt as to their intentions. Everywhere DeLeary went he was tailed. The feds acted like incompetent, low-rent private eyes as they made sure DeLeary saw every tail and heard the clicks on his home phone, but they knew what they were doing. They wanted DeLeary to know they were on to him. They hoped that their scrutiny would crack him, and it did.
Phil got word through a source in the Boston Police Department that they were bringing DeLeary to the new Area A station the next day. As soon as Phil got off the phone with the cop, he called Angelo and made plans to meet again. Angelo had been brought into that same station, on New Sudbury Street in Boston, a week earlier but had said nothing. The cops had been rounding up anyone and everyone they considered a suspect. Angelo knew they were just fishing, but he was pretty shaken nonetheless. He’d recounted that experience for Phil as the two of them walked around Castle Island in South Boston the day after he was released. “DeLeary has more tails than a dozen donkeys,” Phil had told Angelo that day. “I’ve been looking for a place to whack him, but the feds are everywhere. It would be suicide to try it.”
This time they met at McGrail’s and when Phil told him DeLeary would be in custody the next day, Angelo said, “We’re screwed now.” He frowned.
“Maybe not,” Phil said. “I have a plan.”
The two of them left the bar and headed downtown. They parked the car on Congress Street and walked to New Sudbury Street, only a block away from the where they had robbed the Brink’s truck four months before. The Area A station was new, replacing the one Phil had hit in April 1966. It had opened just that past summer, on July 31. Phil had never been inside. He hoped Angelo had been paying attention to his surroundings when he was questioned there.
“Do you remember where they took you for interrogation?” Phil asked Angelo.
“Second floor.”
“Back or front?” Angelo looked a little puzzled and didn’t answer. Phil tried again. “Were there any windows in the interrogation room?”
Angelo nodded.
“Did you look out any of those windows?”
Angelo thought for a moment and then smiled. “Yeah, they left me alone for a couple of minutes and I went over and looked out the window.”
“What did you see?”
Angelo pointed to a parking garage that was under construction.
“You sure?” Phil asked.
“Positive.”
The first four floors of the garage had been completed. It looked as if there were going to be nine or ten stories to the structure. Phil was concerned only with the garage’s second floor. He and Angelo walked up the stairs to it and Phil asked Angelo to show him the window. Angelo did. Phil walked back and forth and studied the layout for fifteen minutes and then turned to Angelo. “All right, let’s go.”
It was while they were heading home that Angelo said, “Phil, you’re not thinking of hitting DeLeary while he’s in the police station, are you?” “It’s our last chance,” Phil responded. “You’ll never get away with it, Phil. We’re talking about hitting a guy who’s in a room with four cops: two local and two feds. That’s insane.”
“I think it’s a lot more insane to be looking at twenty-five years at Walpole. You ain’t been there yet, Ange. Trust me.”
There was dead silence in the car for the rest of the ride. Phil parked in front of Angelo’s house and Angelo turned and said, “Phil, why don’t we wait? What if DeLeary doesn’t roll?” Phil laughed and said, “That guard is going to roll faster than a fat man down the G Street hill, and you know it.” Angelo wasn’t convinced yet. “Phil, I don’t give a flying fuck about DeLeary. I’d whack him myself if I could, but hitting him while he’s in a police station is another thing entirely.” Phil didn’t respond. “Will you at least think about it before tomorrow?” Angelo implored. Phil said, “Yeah, I’ll call you in the morning.”
The next morning Phil called Angelo at home and said, “Let’s just hope he doesn’t roll.”
Angelo knew this was Phil’s way of telling him that he would not try to hit DeLeary.
“Have you heard from Kelley?” Phil then asked his friend.
“Not a peep.”
“Let’s batten down the hatches,” Phil said. “This could get bumpy.”
It did. The following day the ship began to take on water. A Suffolk County grand jury was meeting with DeLeary. Assistant District Attorney Lawrence Cameron was slated to present the state’s case. Also giving grand jury testimony would be Boston detectives Ed Walsh, Thomas Connolly, Alan Crisp, John Carter, Gregory Mazares, and Patrick Spillane.
At around ten that morning, May 14, 1969, before Larry Cameron said word one to the grand jury, Phil received a call from one of his allies on the inside. Something big was happening, Cresta was told, and it probably had to do with the Brink’s job. When Phil learned how many officers were scheduled to address the grand jury, he knew the case was strong. Those guys were the cream of the crop. Still, since DeLeary had never met him, Phil didn’t think he’d be indicted yet.
But a little after twelve-thirty that same day Phil got another call from his contact in the police department. “Red Kelley gave you up,” the person on the other end of the line whispered. “They just handed down secret indictments for you, DeLeary, Kelley, and Angelo. The arrests are being made immediately.” Then the caller hung up.
“That fucking rat bastard,” Phil said out loud, referring to Kelley. He immediately called Angelo and said, “Ange, Kelley gave us up. They’re on their way.” There was silence as Phil waited for Angelo to tell him what he’d do.
“I’m gonna have to take the pinch, Phil,” Angelo finally said. “I can’t leave my family and hide for ten years. I’m just gonna have to take the pinch.”
Phil had been pretty sure Angelo would decide that way. “I’m outta here, Angelo. You know I love you.”
“Yeah, and I love you. Now take care and don’t worry about me.” And then Angelo said, “What about Tony?”
“He wasn’t named, thank God. Gotta go, my friend. Take care of yourself.”
According to the front-page story in the Boston Evening Globe that day, May 14 had been a busy day. The Boston Police picked up Cresta first, it said. The story told of how they arrested him at his home on Headland Way in Medford and how he was booked at Boston Police headquarters. Boston Police, it went on to say, had received a call from attorney F. Lee Bailey, indicating that his client, John “Red” Kelley, would turn himself into authorities at nine A.M. the next day. Angelo and DeLeary were also under arrest
Attorney Chester Paris, representing Angelo, received permission from Judge Rueben L. Lurie to present his arguments on bail in the judge’s chambers. There, Paris complained that the arrest of his client had already been the subject of numerous radio and television reports and that photographers had been pursuing his client. Judge Lurie, no Brogna, then listened to the arguments from Assistant District Attorney Lawrence Cameron, and thereafter set bail at $250,000. He gave Paris thirty days to file motions.
On May 15, 1969, Kelley, accompanied by an attorney from Bailey’s office, was arraigned. He too was held on
$250,000 bail.
In between Angelo’s and Kelley’s arraignments, the police brought Cresta to the Suffolk County Courthouse. He also was held on $250,000 bail, and sent back to the Charles Street Jail, where Kelley and Angelo were incarcerated.
The next day the Record American ran a huge front-page picture of Cresta being taken out of the back of a patrol wagon on his way to his arraignment. The caption read, “William Cresta, in custody of a detective as he was taken into Boston Police Headquarters. He was one of four men named when a Suffolk County grand jury returned secret indictments in the $800,000 hijacking of a Brink’s truck in the North End last December.”
18
On the Run
PHIL SAW THAT PICTURE as he was having his shoes shined in a Pennsylvania barbershop on his way to Chicago. “When you’re on the lam, the last thing you want to do is to draw attention to yourself. But as soon as I saw my brother Billy on the front page of that paper, I just started to laugh.” The FBI and the Boston Police wouldn’t think it was all that funny.
All the detectives who worked Organized Crime had been at Superior Court testifying when the indictments had been issued. They had sent regular cops to round up the suspects. The only known address listed at police headquarters for Cresta was Billy Cresta’s house. When the cops had gone to his house they’d asked, “Is your name Cresta?” Billy, who just happened to be away from Miami on one of his stays in the Boston area, had answered, “Yes, it is.” And he was placed under arrest. It wasn’t until that picture appeared in the paper that the Organized Crime guys realized they had the wrong Cresta. By the time they got to Phil’s last-known address—in Lynn—he was long gone. That extra twenty-four hours had given Phil ample time to tie up some loose ends before he headed to Chicago.
Boston and federal authorities had converged on Phil’s house, armed with subpoenas and search warrants, but they were a day late and in the wrong place. Phil was, of course, separated from his wife, and had been living at the Fenway Motor Inn for over five years.
Final Confession Page 19
