The Quiet Don: The Untold Story of Mafia Kingpin Russell Bufalino (2 page)

“I had charge of maintenance of Canada Dry Beverage, which was owned by Mr. Joseph Barbara.”

“I asked you a question. Did you ever go to a meeting in Apalachin?”

“There was no meeting. I was called at a house there anytime there was a breakdown or to deliver some groceries for my boss. I’d been there many times.”

“Do you recall any particular date that there were a number of people there?”

“Yes, I think sometime in November, 1959–57.”

“November 14th to be exact, right?”

“I believe so.”

“At that time there were a number of people that were there, were there not?”

“Yes, there were.”

“And in fact Carlo Gambino was there, was he not?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Was Vito Genovese also there?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Do you know him?”

“Vito?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, I knew Vito.”

“Did you know him for a long time?”

“No, not too long.”

“How many people were there altogether?”

“I don’t remember. You should have the statistics.”

“Something like fifty-eight men?”

“More or less.”

“These were all people in
La Cosa Nostra
?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“You just happened to be there selling soda?” said Akerman.

“No,” said Bufalino. “I’m a mechanic.”

Akerman smiled.

The self-described “mechanic” was a man whose unpretentious lifestyle and hidden perch in northeastern Pennsylvania served as a cover for a vast and decades-long criminal enterprise that elevated Bufalino to the top of the mob hierarchy, a figure so influential and violent, a 1964 U.S. Senate subcommittee report on “Organized Crime and Illicit Traffic in Narcotics” described Bufalino as “one of the most ruthless and powerful leaders of the Mafia in the United States.”

To those who knew him very well, including Akerman, Russell Bufalino was arguably the most powerful organized crime figure in the nation.

“So,”
said Akerman
.
“You’re a mechanic?”

“That’s right,”
said Bufalino.

O
NE

T
wo Pennsylvania State Police troopers sat inside an unmarked car waiting for the go-ahead to do something they had never done before, arrest a Catholic priest for lying to a grand jury.

It was early January 2008, and the troopers, Rich Weinstock and Dave Swartz, had been waiting for nearly an hour with the engine off, the cold morning air laying a thin frost on the windows.

The Rev. Joseph Sica was inside the St. Mary of the Assumption Church monastery, likely having breakfast. He usually left just before 9
A
.
M
. for Mercy Hospital, where he was the resident chaplain, and the troopers had planned to arrest him before he left for work. When the call finally came, just after 8:30
A
.
M
., the troopers exited the car and walked briskly to Sica’s front door. He lived in an apartment at the monastery, which was in Scranton, and after several knocks, the door opened and there stood the burly priest, somewhat surprised that he had two guests so early in the morning.

“Father Joseph Sica, I’m Trooper Weinstock, this is Detective Swartz. We are with the Pennsylvania State Police and we have a warrant for your arrest.”

Sica was stunned. He had seen the troopers before, during the grand jury hearings in Harrisburg the previous summer. But he was just a witness and not the target of the investigation. When Sica asked why he was being arrested, he was told he was being charged with perjury.

Weinstock handcuffed Sica and sat him on a chair and informed him he had a search warrant. Within minutes, the troopers found a handgun and $1,000 in cash.

“I have a permit for that,” said Sica of the gun. Irate, the priest threatened Weinstock, telling him that he was opening himself to exposure of a sexual harassment lawsuit filed by a female trooper. The complaint had been dismissed, so the priest’s threat meant nothing.

The troopers put a coat over Sica’s shoulders and led him to the police cruiser. Several other troopers had arrived to mop up as Sica was put in the backseat for the two-hour drive to Harrisburg.

Within minutes, a fidgety Sica said he had to make a call, and he asked Weinstock if he could use his cell phone.

“Who you calling?”

“A friend. I have to notify my attorney.”

Intrigued, Weinstock pulled out his phone, and Sica rattled off a phone number, after which Weinstock reached back and put the phone to Sica’s ear and mouth. The volume was on high, so the troopers could hear the phone ring and the gruff voice that answered.

“Lou, it’s me. Listen, I’ve been arrested.”

“You what?”

“I’ve been arrested. They’re taking me now to Harrisburg.”

“Don’t say anything. We’ll take care of it, you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m in the police car. I’m with the troopers. They’re taking me to jail in Harrisburg.”

“You’re what, inside the car now talking to me? Get off! Get off the phone!”

Weinstock and Swartz heard everything, including the abrupt hang up, and they recognized the voice on the other end of the line.

“You called DeNaples?” said Weinstock.

* * *

IT WAS ALMOST
three years earlier, in April 2005, when Ralph Periandi was thumbing through more than a dozen files sitting on his lap on the drive back to the Pennsylvania State Police headquarters, in Harrisburg, from Philadelphia, reviewing his notes from his meeting with the FBI.

Periandi was a lieutenant colonel and a deputy commissioner, which was the second-highest rank within the state police and just one step below the commissioner. Of medium height, clean-cut, his gray uniform pressed to perfection and hair buzz-cut short over a trim and fit figure, Periandi looked the part of a police commander, and he had dressed to make an impression.

For nearly thirty years, he enjoyed a career that took him to different posts throughout the state, from a fresh-faced trooper writing speeding tickets outside Philadelphia in 1975 to running the Bureau of Criminal Investigations (BCI), a prestigious post where he commanded the nerve center for all state police investigations. As a major in charge of BCI, Periandi had his finger on the pulse of crime in the state, and it was from that platform that now, as deputy commissioner, he decided he could commence a probe of Pennsylvania’s popular governor, Ed Rendell and his administration, which was the primary reason for the meeting with the FBI.

Rendell had been elected governor in November 2002. He was a rare force of will and personality who, as Philadelphia’s mayor in the 1990s, had gained national acclaim for leading that city’s remarkable transformation. Originally from New York, Rendell attended college in Philadelphia, first at the University of Pennsylvania, and then law school at Villanova. Following graduation, he remained in Philadelphia and served as an assistant district attorney before diving into politics and winning. He won his first political race in 1977 using an anticorruption platform to defeat the incumbent district attorney.

Rendell served two terms as district attorney before making an ill-fated run for governor in 1986. He lost his first bid for mayor of Philadelphia but won on his second try, in 1991, and took over the administration of a crime-ridden, nearly bankrupt city with deep divisions within its multiethnic constituency. But by the time he left office, in 1999, he had led a stunning turnaround, turning a budget deficit into a surplus and, through sheer will and political cunning, erased Philadelphia’s negative national perception and replaced it with a burgeoning pride.

Despite his success, Rendell never took his eyes off his main prize, the governorship, and he resigned as mayor in late 1999 to take up the chairmanship of the Democratic National Committee (DNC), a post he held during the 2000 presidential election and the chaotic weeks that followed as the courts decided the historic outcome between Republican George W. Bush and Democrat Al Gore.

But Rendell’s tenure in Washington, D.C., was a temporary diversion as he plotted his next major political conquest, which became apparent to all after he resigned as DNC chairman in 2001 to focus on the 2002 Pennsylvania gubernatorial election.

The post had been held by two-term Republican governor Tom Ridge, but he resigned following the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks on New York, Washington, D.C., and Pennsylvania to accept the appointment as head of a brand-new federal agency, the Department of Homeland Security.

After announcing his candidacy, Rendell created a campaign strategy that used as its centerpiece the successful legalization of casino gambling. For years, Pennsylvania property owners fell victim to spiraling school property taxes, which crippled many of state’s cities and municipalities. Feeding off voter anger, Rendell devised his
Plan for a New Pennsylvania
, which would seek legislative approval of slots machines by arguing that the $1.5 billion in expected proceeds would be distributed to school districts to lower property taxes. The initial idea was to allow gambling at horse tracks, but to reach the $1 billion mark and above, the state had to license several stand-alone casinos. The idea was universally rejected.

Gaming had for decades been seen as a panacea for curing many of Pennsylvania’s ills, but it never garnered much support from voters or the legislature. For his part, Rendell pointed to table games in Atlantic City, slots in West Virginia as well as gambling initiatives in other nearby states, such as Maryland, Delaware and New York, and argued that if Pennsylvania didn’t get in the mix now, it would be shut out and forever lose billions in potential tax revenues.

Despite Rendell’s pleas, the public remained decidedly against the initiative, as did a majority of elected officials, including the Republicans and most Democrats in the state legislature in Harrisburg. But that didn’t stop Rendell from working behind the scenes with two of the state’s most powerful lawmakers, Democratic senators Vincent Fumo, of Philadelphia, and Robert Mellow, who represented a large portion of northeast Pennsylvania, including Scranton.

The two lawmakers had for years served as the major power brokers within Pennsylvania state politics but were forced to take backseats during the seven years of Republican leadership under Ridge, who did his best to eliminate many of the “perks” within Harrisburg politics. In one instance, Ridge put the kibosh on a long-standing secretive agreement that traditionally offered control of the Pennsylvania Turnpike Commission (PTC) to the party in power. The PTC oversaw and administered the hundreds of miles of Pennsylvania highway, from east to west and north to south, with the toll road serving as a feeding ground for greedy politicos who received large contributions and even side cash from a deep well of individuals and businesses eager to gain a share of the billions in state contracts. Those favored somehow got the choice assignments, including the handful of major law firms in Philadelphia, Harrisburg and Pittsburgh that won lucrative contracts as counsel to PTC bond issues.

Unbeknownst to Pennsylvania’s populace, and to most legislators, there had been for years a gentlemen’s agreement within the legislative leadership that stipulated the party in power controlled 50 percent of all Turnpike contracts, while the other 50 percent was split between the minority party and the governor.

The exception to the agreement was Tom Ridge, a conservative Republican from Erie with designs on the U.S. presidency who tried to limit the patronage that long overwhelmed the state capital. Ridge’s efforts muted the deal making, especially at the PTC.

Rendell won the 2002 election comfortably, and the subsequent Democratic takeover of the House and Senate opened the doors wide to resume the previous practices. Especially for Fumo, who had been the autocratic ruler of the state capital and the most influential legislator in Harrisburg. Fumo’s network reached far beyond government to the most powerful law firms and corporations doing business in Pennsylvania, and his reach also infiltrated the state Supreme Court, which had at times been criticized for putting politics before the law.

Following his election win, Rendell immediately tasked Fumo and Mellow with initiating a report on the potential for gaming legislation. When it was submitted to the Senate Democratic Appropriations Committee, in mid-2003, the “Pennsylvania Slot Machine Facilities: Statewide Revenue Projections” report suggested six so-called racinos and six stand-alone casinos for Pennsylvania, with two in Philadelphia, one in Pittsburgh, one near Pocono International Raceway in Long Pond and two undetermined locations, most likely Allentown and Shrewsbury. The report suggested a one-time $50 million licensing fee for successful applicants, with the state taking 34 percent of all gross daily receipts. The market potential, according to the report, was nearly $3 billion, with more than $1 billion going to state coffers to help weary taxpayers.

Although the plan failed to capture the support of the public, by early 2004, the gaming initiative was moving full speed ahead behind the scenes within legislative circles. For deputy state police commissioner Ralph Periandi’s purposes, early meetings with the Rendell administration had produced a blueprint that would include the state police in the vital role of casino security and the ultra-important role of conducting background investigations of potential casino owners, along with other key personnel and employees. Neither Periandi nor his boss, commissioner Jeffrey Miller, were in favor of the measure, with both men sharing the belief that gaming would attract a bad element. Many legislators, mostly Republicans, shared their negative opinions, and their opposition to the legislation delayed a vote, while Democrats horse-traded with their own leadership. The Philadelphia black caucus, for instance, refused to support the legislation unless one of the casino licenses was awarded to an African-American. The caucus also insisted that an African-American was appointed to what would be the seven-member Pennsylvania Gaming Control Board responsible to oversee the new initiative.

Despite the overwhelming public opposition, the arm-twisting and negotiating continued until legislators were called to a bizarre midnight vote on July 4, 2004. When it was originally introduced, the legislation was a thirty-three-line document about background checks at state horse tracks. Fumo’s staff spent weeks rewriting the bill, and when it emerged from the Senate on July 1, 2004, it was now one hundred and forty-five pages long.

Known as the Pennsylvania Race Horse Development and Gaming Act, and commonly known as Act 71, the bill authorized slots gambling throughout the state and paved the way for 61,000 slot machines at fourteen casinos at yet-to-be determined sites. Table games, such as blackjack and poker, weren’t included in the bill, though there was an understanding those games would eventually be part of the mix. Debate on the bill began on Saturday, July 3, and the voting went down party lines, with Rendell, Fumo and Mellow pressing hard on the Democratic majority in the House and Senate, which followed its leadership and approved the legislation.

Pennsylvania had casino gambling, and Periandi had his antenna up.