by Mike Stanton
Another decisive piece of evidence, according to the two jurors, sprang from a matter that they were still stuck on—the University Club. Although they could not agree on the extortion count regarding the club, the jury was troubled by the Steve Antonson tapes. It sounded to them as if Cianci had told Antonson to lie to investigators. Even though the judge had thrown out the witness-tampering charges against Cianci, because of Rose’s failure to clarify Antonson’s testimony, the jury was still free to consider the evidence for the remaining charges.
As they neared a verdict on Count 1, the jurors kept coming back to the Antonson tapes. Cianci, said one juror, “was very, very unbelievable.”
SHORTLY BEFORE NOON on Monday, June 24, Judge Torres’s clerk handed him a note. He was presiding over the start of the bribery trial of Art Coloian, accused of serving as the mayor’s bagman for the Christopher Ise bribe. Richard Rose was questioning David Ead all over again. The judge broke early for lunch. Coloian left the defendant’s table. At about twelve-thirty Cianci, Corrente, and Autiello replaced him. The mayor’s hand shook as he poured himself a cup of water from the pitcher.
Four federal marshals posted themselves beside the defendants, and the jury was brought in. Mary Dole, the forewoman, handed the verdict sheet to the judge’s clerk, who stepped to the lectern beneath Torres and announced the verdict.
“Count 1, racketeering conspiracy, as to Vincent A. Cianci Jr.—guilty.”
As the clerk continued to read the roll, the mayor, his face ashen, methodically checked off each charge with his pen, never looking up. Corrente, seated to his left, exhaled and shook his head in disbelief.
Cianci’s surprise grew as he marked off the string of “not guiltys” that followed his initial conviction.
The jurors, who had deadlocked on the University Club charges, were also in disbelief when Torres sent them back to resolve their differences. They walked back into the deliberation room and looked at one another as if to say, “Now what do we do?” For the next three hours they prodded the three holdouts to show them the evidence that Cianci was guilty. They finally helped break the impasse by convincing the three tired jurors that a vote to acquit was not a vote that Cianci was innocent—only that the government had failed to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt.
Meanwhile, court security shooed reporters and spectators out of the courthouse. Cianci and his codefendants and their lawyers remained incommunicado inside. Outside, about two hundred people gathered in disbelief in Kennedy Plaza. Many had hurried from downtown office buildings to witness a moment in Providence history. A businessman said that people would remember this day in Providence the way people remembered where they were on September 11, 2001, or the day that President Kennedy was shot. A young legal intern said that she had expected the mayor to be found not guilty. “I think everyone kind of knew he was doing things, but I think that what he has done for the city overshadowed that he was a crook.” But Pat Cortellessa, the last man to attempt to run for mayor against Cianci, before he had been knocked off the ballot, said that he had a case of champagne on ice. “It’s a victory party for the people of Providence who fought corruption, kickbacks, and bribes,” said Cortellessa, who had attended the trial every day.
Two dozen uniformed police officers and plainclothes detectives lined the street. Many asked reporters hopefully if this meant that the reign of Buddy Cianci was over.
It was small comfort when the jury came back late in the afternoon and acquitted Cianci of the remaining University Club charges. At about 4 P.M. court was adjourned. The loquacious Cianci seemed in a daze as he walked past the reporters in the corridor. “How you doin’?” he murmured as he walked past them.
The mayor walked, blinking, outside into the bright sunshine. He was greeted by a polite smattering of applause from the crowd and a few lonely cries of “Buddy!” Managing a small smile, Cianci waved and climbed into his waiting Lincoln Town Car with a deflated Egbert. The car drove a few feet, then stopped to pick up another lawyer, who would handle the mayor’s appeal, and roared off.
In the days and weeks ahead, as Cianci prepared to leave office and steeled himself for prison, he would tick off all the charges he had been acquitted of and puzzle over the one that he hadn’t.
“What was I convicted of?” he asked plaintively, to anyone who would listen.
Then he answered his own question. “I was convicted of being the mayor.”
The jurors, besieged by reporters, did not speak publicly about their deliberations. Later, when asked to respond to Cianci’s lament about being found not guilty of twenty-nine out of thirty charges (it was actually eleven of twelve, with five having been thrown out by the judge), one juror said: “Well, he was darn lucky. He’s like John Gotti. His suit’s a little slick.”
THERE WAS AN elegiac quality to Cianci’s final days in office in the summer of 2002. In September he faced sentencing. Until then, at least, he was still the mayor.
On June 26, two days after his conviction, he faced a decision. It was the filing deadline for candidates for mayor. The notoriously indecisive Cianci wrestled with whether to announce for reelection, on the chance that the judge might throw out the jury’s verdict. Others advised him not to antagonize Torres, who might interpret a decision to run as a sign of defiance that would weigh against him at sentencing. At six that morning, he contemplated running as a Democrat. But early that afternoon he announced that he would not run. A record nineteen candidates, many of whom had been waiting for his decision, rushed to file for mayor.
“I thought I could win,” he said. “But by four o’clock today, I can’t honestly say to the people that I can be their mayor for the next four years.”
Journal columnist Charlie Bakst came into the mayor’s office and congratulated Cianci on his decision. The two men chatted. Cianci was hoping to remain free during his appeal and talked about writing his memoirs.
“Nixon said the best writing is done in prison,” interjected Bakst.
“Only you could say that, Charlie. Obviously you’ve never been there because we don’t get great writing from you.” Cianci roared with laughter, his aides and other reporters joining in.
Later that day, after a long, rambling press conference carried live by all three Providence television stations, the lame-duck mayor did what he had always done. He made the rounds. In the afternoon, he addressed the Classical High School graduation at the Veterans Memorial Auditorium. Waiting in the wings as the band played “Pomp and Circumstance,” Cianci bounded onto the stage to raucous applause.
“This is a very big day for you and an equally big day for me,” he said, as he awarded three graduates one-thousand-dollar scholarships from his marinara-sauce fund.
That night Cianci made a pilgrimage to the Rosario Club in Silver Lake, where his first campaign, against Joe Doorley, had ignited when he went there to address supporters of Franny Brown. The occasion was a meeting of the Democratic City Committee, which had gathered to endorse candidates. The assembled ward bosses, many of whom had formed the backbone of Cianci’s political machine and who, no doubt, would have endorsed him again, gave him a warm welcome. When the mayor spoke, he was a study in humility.
“You’re the ones who go out and get the votes,” he said. “It’s wonderful to go on television and give a great speech and talk about policy, but you’re the ones in the trenches. There’s a lot to be said about that. It’s called democracy. . . . People from all walks of life, all races, all colors, all creeds coming together to express their interest in the governance of their city and their state. And it happens all across America. It happens in Iowa as you see the presidential caucuses, and it happens in Silver Lake.”
In parting, Cianci pointed to the bar and noted the pictures on the wall—of Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack, of himself. Then he gestured to a statue in an alcove, saying, “To guide you in your deliberations, you have the Virgin Mary over there.” The mayor urged them to “stay all night. It took them nine days to talk abo
ut me. Don’t rush to judgment.”
On the Fourth of July he sought solace at the Bristol parade, where his 1980 campaign for governor had peaked, and where he had always basked in the adulation of the crowd. But despite another warm reception, he couldn’t entirely escape the shadow of his conviction. The parade paused in front of Raymond DeLeo’s house on High Street, where, as always, a large party was in progress. Several young men in the front yard began serenading him. To the tune of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” they sang, “For he’s a RICO felon, for he’s a RICO felon . . . which nobody can deny.” Cianci was so uncomfortable that he directed an aide to tell the band to start playing, to drown them out.
At the end of July, on a sweltering afternoon, Cianci journeyed to the Second Ward, on the East Side, to dedicate Francis Brown Square. Brown had died, but his widow and children and other old political hands came out for what turned into a retrospective on Providence politics. Cianci reminisced about how Brown’s primary challenge of Doorley had opened the door for his election, and lamented the fact that few people in Providence remembered the political kingmaker Larry McGarry, Mr. Democrat. Cianci recalled attending McGarry’s wake in 1995 and asking his police driver if he had ever heard of McGarry. The driver responded, “Who’s Larry McGarry?” Cianci shook his head sadly. Later, as he was leaving, the Journal’s Charlie Bakst pointed out that Cianci had been the anticorruption candidate back then. “Still am,” Cianci replied curtly.
On August 21 David Ead was sentenced to home confinement, fined ten thousand dollars, and ordered to pay sixty thousand in restitution to the City of Providence. The judge, Ronald Lagueux, surprised Ead by ordering him to stay away from Foxwoods or any other form of gambling for the duration of his sentence. “You’ve beaten the odds up till now, but you can’t indefinitely,” said Lagueux. Ead, who cried in relief at avoiding prison, soon began complaining about the hefty restitution. He said that it would take him longer to pay the money back if he couldn’t win some at the blackjack table.
In passing sentence, Lagueux said that he believed Ead’s testimony, and that it established that “there were, indeed, stains on the mayor’s jacket.” At the same time, Cianci stood in front of City Hall, unveiling a high-tech police crime-fighting vehicle equipped with a rooftop camera that he said could be “zoomed right into the mayor’s office.” He declined to discuss Lagueux’s remarks.
The week before his sentencing, Cianci attended a farewell party with a few hundred old friends and former adversaries in the ballroom atop the Biltmore. He talked about how his entire career had been wrapped up in the old hotel, dating back to 1974 and his first announcement for mayor in the Garden Room downstairs.
“I started in the Garden Room, and I ended up in the ballroom,” he said. “I like living in the Biltmore because I can look out at most of the city you’ve created.” Cianci quoted from a New Yorker story published that week about his trial, which referred to Providence as “the most resuscitated city in America.” He pointed to a recent Town & Country article recommending six cities to visit: Barcelona, Florence, Venice, Los Angeles, Paris—and Providence. “We’re confident, moving in the right direction. We believe in ourselves. That’s the best legacy that any mayor could expect.”
After his speech, Cianci chatted about the New Yorker story and some unflattering references to Freitas. The mayor shook his head in disgust. “Freitas is a nut,” he said. “Aiken got Freitas and worked through Rose because he wanted me so bad—because he couldn’t get me the first time. After that I guess they taught a course at the FBI Academy: How Not to Run a Corruption Investigation. At least that’s what I heard.”
Sentencing day, September 5, 2002, dawned sunny and bright, another beautiful day in the Renaissance City. Before dawn Cianci and a few family members slipped into the mayor’s office for a quiet farewell breakfast.
Later that morning, Cianci stood before Judge Torres and was sentenced to five years and four months in prison.
Judge Torres said that he was “struck by the parallels between the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. There appear to be two very different Buddy Ciancis. The first Buddy Cianci is a skilled, charismatic political figure, one of the most talented Rhode Island has ever seen. . . . Then there’s the Buddy Cianci who’s been portrayed here. That’s the Buddy Cianci who was mayor of an administration that was corrupt at all levels. That’s the Buddy Cianci who committed an egregious breach of the public trust by . . . operating the city that Buddy Cianci was supposed to serve as a criminal enterprise to line his own pockets. My job is to sentence the second Buddy Cianci. Because the first Buddy Cianci wouldn’t be here.”
Cianci spoke briefly. He maintained his innocence, vowed to appeal, and thanked the judge for his fairness throughout the trial. “It’s an unfortunate situation,” he said. “I’m sorry, obviously, that it’s come to this. . . . I have dedicated myself to the City of Providence in many ways. . . . I love the city.
“I never intended to do anything wrong.”
As the noon hour passed and the sentence was imposed, the office of mayor officially passed from Cianci’s hands for the second time. While he was still inside the courthouse, the black Lincoln Town Car with the number-one license plate drove away, leaving Cianci to get a ride back to the Biltmore in a friend’s beat-up Nissan Maxima.
But Cianci did not go gently. The judge had one final surprise. He gave Cianci a ninety-day stay of execution, allowing him to ask the First Circuit Court of Appeals to permit him to remain free during his appeal. As Cianci left the courthouse, legal minds raced to digest the consequences of the stay of execution. The city charter called for Cianci to lose office upon sentencing. But if the judge had delayed execution of the sentence, did that mean Cianci was legally out of office? Asked on the courthouse steps if he was still the mayor, Cianci replied, “Yes, I’m still the mayor. . . . I guess they won’t be able to have their meeting in ten minutes,” meaning the swearing in of City Council president John Lombardi as the new mayor.
Over at City Hall, while Cianci headed back to the Biltmore, his city solicitor, Charles Mansolillo, raced through the corridors. Mansolillo was engaged in heated discussions with Lombardi and his advisers, and also talking to Cianci and his lawyers by phone. As the honor guard gathered outside the packed council chambers, there was a sense of a coup d’état in the air.
But shortly after 1 P.M., Cianci agreed that his time had passed. Across the street at the Biltmore, he adjourned to the bar at Davio’s, where he nursed a drink, smoked a cigarette, and held court. He already had a gig lined up as a radio talk-show host until he had to report to prison in December—unless, God willing, the appellate court allowed him to remain free on appeal. Cianci looked up at the barroom television and watched his replacement being sworn in. “Look at him,” said Cianci, chuckling. “He’s sweating.”
The following Tuesday, Citizen Cianci was having his hair done up at his East Side salon when filmmaker Michael Corrente, who knew the owner, called to chat. Corrente, who was planning to make a movie about Cianci’s life, soon found himself on the phone with the ex-mayor.
“The judge cut me some slack,” Cianci said.
“I heard,” replied Corrente.
The mayor chuckled. “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. The cocksucker. He didn’t give me two fuckin’ paychecks, though.”
EPILOGUE
The Last Hurrah
In the months following his sentencing and removal from office, Vincent A. Cianci, Jr., took comfort in the cocoon of Buddy World.
His lawyers appealed to the First Circuit Court of Appeals in Boston, asking that Cianci be allowed to remain free on appeal. He needed a decision before December 6, the deadline that Judge Torres had set for Cianci to report to prison.
Meanwhile, the federal Bureau of Prisons was preparing Cianci’s bed. He was issued an inmate number, 05000-070 (the last three digits signifying Rhode Island), and put in a database of prisoners. His status was listed as “in trans
it.” But everyone in Providence knew where Buddy was.
He remained in the Presidential Suite at the Biltmore, a visible presence in Providence. He traded his black city limousine and police driver for a red minivan and a retired policeman as his chauffeur. His archives—several hundred boxes of papers, trophies, and memorabilia—gathered dust on the upper floor of an old mill building on Branch Avenue, above a World Gym and an adult bookstore. He still ate and drank at Mediterraneo and haunted the bar in Davio’s, at the Biltmore.
The week after his sentencing, Cianci started cohosting a morning talk show on local radio station WPRO. The move stirred the usual controversy about glorifying criminals but also boosted the station’s ratings. Besides the money, Cianci appreciated the distraction from thinking about prison, and the opportunity to take shots at his enemies. A bonus was the time slot—it allowed him to go mano a microphone with his nemesis at WHJJ, John “the Independent Man” DePetro.
The once-mighty mayor found himself reduced to competing with a reviled talk-show host. On the airwaves he remained a polarizing force. His supporters lamented that Cianci had been wrongly convicted, and that the Providence Renaissance would not survive without him. But a growing number of Providencians had grown tired of Cianci’s act and felt that it was time for a new mayor to carry the city forward.
It galled Cianci to see government march on without him.
He spent a lot of time on the air sniping at his successor, John Lombardi. As the City Council president, Lombardi had questioned the mayor’s bloated personal staff, which was bigger than the mayor of Boston’s. Immediately after Lombardi was sworn in, he dispatched aides, accompanied by uniformed policemen, to fire Cianci aides whose positions had been cut from the budget.
During his first week in office Lombardi led a reporter into the mayor’s office, which seemed larger without the large Oriental carpet and Cianci’s trophies and celebrity photos. Mousetraps were scattered about the bare wooden floor, to cope with a rodent-infestation problem. Lombardi, a tall, dignified man who had grown up orphaned on Federal Hill, seemed gratified to be serving as mayor, an office he had considered running for but then decided against, on his wife’s wishes. He talked about the temptation of power, how he had been in a restaurant having lunch and a man at another table had tried to pick up the check. Lombardi said that he practically had to fight the man before he got the message.
