Operation Family Secrets Part 10

A phone call to the FBI was out of the question. Outgoing calls were taped and monitored. If I was going to take the plunge, not one person or ent.i.ty could be trusted, no inmate or cellmate, no guard or counselor, not the warden himself. Being exposed as a beefer was equal to a death sentence. counselor, not the warden himself. Being exposed as a beefer was equal to a death sentence.

Dad had already received one anonymous piece of hate mail threatening him. He suspected it was from Uncle Joe, which gave me an idea. I would send the FBI a letter. This would be the safest way to move forward.

My plan was simple: compose a one-page letter, typed, unsigned, and sanitized so that, although my name was on it, no one could positively confirm that I sent the letter. I took every precaution while typing the letter, stas.h.i.+ng crumpled drafts in my s.h.i.+rt.

Sending a letter was my only option. Prison authorities rarely, if ever, read an inmate's outgoing mail. I was aware of the Outfit reach inside law enforcement. The letter had to be a complete secret. Whom should I send it to?

I scoured my PSI forms and court doc.u.ments for any particular FBI agents a.s.signed to my case. One name stood out: Agent Tom Bourgeois. He had worked on the RICO case involving Matt Russo. Bourgeois was not only a supervising agent on the Organized Crime squad, but he was gung ho and seemingly untouchable. Although it was a shot in the dark, I felt that reaching out to Bourgeois was a fail-safe way to deal with my father. If my mail was intercepted, I could blame my embittered uncle Joe or the FBI, who often used disinformation campaigns to divide and conquer organized crime.

I walked into the empty prison library early that morning to type my letter. It wasn't in my nature to cooperate with law enforcement. It was viewed as weak. The FBI was seen as an adversary whose resources were potentially limitless. Before now, the thought of a.s.sisting them was out of the realm of possibility. But I realized that my relations.h.i.+p with my dad was at a dead end.

July 27, 1998. After a couple of horrible weeks watching him maintain his facade, I dropped the letter into the Milan prison mailbox knowing I was taking a life-altering step.

The moment I sent it, I knew I had crossed the line. Cooperating meant I would probably have to give up Uncle Nick for his crimes, and that was agonizing.

The final draft of my letter read in full: ATTN: Thomas Bourghois [sic]

I am sending you this letter in total confidentiality. It is very important that you show or talk to n.o.body about this letter except who you have to. The less people that know I am contacting you the more I can and will help and be able to help you. What I am getting at is I want to help you and the GOVT. I need for you and only you to come out to MILAN FCI and we can talk face to face.

n.o.bODY not even my lawyers know that I am sending you this letter, it is better that way for my safety. Hopefully we can come to an agreement when and if you choose to COME HERE. Please if you decide to come make sure very few staff at MILAN know your reason for coming because if they do they might tell my father and that would be a danger to me. The best days to come would be TUES. or WEDS. Please no recordings of any kind just bring pen and lots of paper. This is no game. I feel I have to help you keep this sick man locked up forever.

FRANK CALABRESE JR.

06738424 inmate # UNIT G-Right FCI MILAN MICHIGAN Months pa.s.sed. I received no response. I kept my guard up just in case the letter had been intercepted. One day a CO called me aside and whispered to me, "SIS called and they want you to come over right away." The Special Investigative Service office housed the prison police force.

I feigned surprise. The request had to be about the letter. The SIS chief ushered me into a small windowless room with a table and a few chairs. A few minutes later FBI Agent Tom Bourgeois walked in and sat down.

Bourgeois had his doubts about me and decided to put me to the test. There were legal issues and a lot of questions. Did my attorney know about my sending the letter? What were my intentions in writing the letter, and what did I want in return? Was I unhappy doing my time? Had my father and I had a falling-out? attorney know about my sending the letter? What were my intentions in writing the letter, and what did I want in return? Was I unhappy doing my time? Had my father and I had a falling-out?

Was I willing to wear a wire?

I said no to the wire because I felt my father was way too smart and careful. He wouldn't talk about any of his activities with the Outfit and the crew, or if he did and if he "caught the play," he would kill me like he would kill anybody else who betrayed him.

But after a couple of weeks of reflection, I changed my mind. I felt I had to wear a wire after all.

After a second FBI interview with Agent Bourgeois and another agent, Scott Brooks, I agreed to wear the wire. Then a.s.sistant U.S. Attorney Mitch Mars asked to speak with me. In November 1998, Bourgeois returned to FCI Milan with Mars for a third FBI meeting. After a short meeting, both were satisfied that I would go the distance.

When Agent Bourgeois returned to FCI Milan for a fourth time in January 1999 with fellow agents Kevin Blair and Mike Hartnett, I "gave" the FBI the 1986 John Fecarotta hit. I detailed the planning my father, my uncle, and I had done before the hit and conceded that Uncle Nick was involved. I admitted to Hartnett that I had retrieved the gun from the sewer.

The first meetings with "Tyler," my new code name, were fruitful. The facts about Fecarotta's death pa.s.sed muster with Mitch Mars and the prosecutors at the U.S. Attorney's Office. As Tyler, I could provide the Feds with any possible communications or street crew activity going on between Dad and the outside world.

In January 1999, Agent Michael Maseth was a.s.signed to my case, which centered on my pledge to testify against my father. I took one look at the boyish Maseth and shook my head. This guy looked much too young to be an FBI agent. Had I made the right decision? Was the Bureau taking this operation seriously enough? In February, I alerted Maseth that crooked cop Michael Ricci and another policeman named Anthony Doyle were going to visit my father in FCI Milan to discuss what was going on with some evidence. As a result Mike and the squad obtained a wiretap order from a judge and went fis.h.i.+ng for information. some evidence. As a result Mike and the squad obtained a wiretap order from a judge and went fis.h.i.+ng for information.

With new light cast on the death of Fecarotta and with me implicating my father and uncle, the FBI went to work. It was time for the Bureau to reopen the case and retrieve a golden piece of evidence stored in the Chicago PD evidence locker for thirteen years: the b.l.o.o.d.y gloves worn and dropped by Uncle Nick. The handing over of a piece of the b.l.o.o.d.y gloves to the Feds for DNA testing became of particular interest to a couple of Outfit moles (and personal friends of my dad). Retired cop Mike Ricci had moved over to the Cook County Sheriff's office from the Chicago Police Department to become head of the Home Monitoring unit. Anthony "Twan" Doyle, a veteran CPD officer, worked in the evidence room and had computer access to information about the Feds' interest in the gloves.

Once the FBI was alerted through me and other sources that the mob was aware of the b.l.o.o.d.y gloves, a plan was hatched. Young Agent Maseth would act as a decoy to exploit any mob leaks that might have developed among Ricci, Doyle, and my father regarding the Fecarotta murder.

It was common knowledge among the feds that Deputy Ricci "was kinky" and cozy with the mob, and especially with my father. The two had been partners in a hot-dog stand, and Ricci didn't care who knew about it. So Agent Mike reached out to Ricci, who manned the administrative post with the Sheriff's Department.

Mike visited Ricci at the Sheriff's office in April 1999 posing as a naive rookie and brought along female agent Tracy Balinao, who looked just as youthful. Mike pulled out a picture of Jimmy DiForti and handed it to Ricci. At the time, DiForti was out on bond and was supposed to be on home monitoring, but due to an administrative snarl, he wasn't.

"This guy is a mobster," Maseth told Ricci, "and he's out on $2.5 million bond. Why isn't he on home monitoring?"

Maseth and Balinao were sent to play dumb. They didn't care about DiForti. Their mission was to "tickle the wire" to see whether or not Ricci would tip off my father about any pending investigations, especially the reopened Fecarotta case and the gloves. Mike noticed on Ricci's office wall a picture about the notorious Scheussler-Peterson murders, a case resurrected from 1955, when three young boys were found dead and molested in a ditch. Through the toil of detectives like Ricci, the case was reopened, and the killer was arrested and convicted in 1995. whether or not Ricci would tip off my father about any pending investigations, especially the reopened Fecarotta case and the gloves. Mike noticed on Ricci's office wall a picture about the notorious Scheussler-Peterson murders, a case resurrected from 1955, when three young boys were found dead and molested in a ditch. Through the toil of detectives like Ricci, the case was reopened, and the killer was arrested and convicted in 1995.

"You know what's interesting?" Mike said, pointing to the framed photo. "With today's technology, we can actually go back thirty years to solve cases using DNA. In fact, we're working on a couple of cases that go back years."

Ricci nodded with interest.

Two days later, Maseth phoned Ricci again, prodding him further. "Listen, Mike, can you do me a favor? Forget I was at your office talking about Jimmy DiForti. After I got back and told my bosses about our meeting, I got my a.s.s chewed out. Forget I was there."

The ambush was set. Would Ricci and Doyle take the bait and reach out to my father?

As the case, now code-named Operation Family Secrets, gained traction in January and February of 1999, I gave Agents Mike Hartnett and Kevin Blair the urgent news that my father would be visited by Mike Ricci and Twan Doyle in a week. Maseth flew up to Milan and combed through tapes of my father's incoming calls. Armed with the Milan daily phone logs, Maseth listened to countless monitored prison phone calls on an old reel-to-reel tape recorder.

Scanning through the tapes, he located a conversation between Mike Ricci and my dad confirming their visit for February 19, only a few days away.

Agents Mike Maseth and Mike Hartnett, whom I had nicknamed "the Two Mikes," knew that Ricci was in deep with my father. As for Anthony Doyle, had Twan gained access to the b.l.o.o.d.y glove before CPD officer Laurie Lewis sent it off to the FBI OC1 squad, chances are he would have destroyed it. Out on the street, Frank "Toots" Caruso, Johnny Apes, and Ronnie Jarrett were put on red alert to help find the mole.

Little Jimmy Marcello was holed up in FCI Pekin along with Uncle Nick and his cellmate, Harry Aleman. Marcello was serving a twelve-year stretch for juice loans and ordering the firebombing of an Oak Park movie theater in a union dispute. Originally serving as a driver and emissary for bosses Joey Aiuppa and Sam "Wings" Carlisi, Marcello had reached the upper echelon of the Outfit. Calling the shots while incarcerated in Pekin, Marcello regularly communicated in code with his half brother Mickey Marcello. Word was out that the b.l.o.o.d.y gloves and the reopened Fecarotta case posed a tremendous problem, and the Outfit needed to know who was supplying the Feds with highly incriminating information.

The Two Mikes needed to get the wire up in the Milan visiting lounge p.r.o.nto if they were going to tape the upcoming visit to my father. Here was their chance to catch two crooked cops leaking valuable information to a key Outfit figure. There wasn't a minute to waste. Instead of the necessary three weeks weeks of prep work it would ordinarily take, Hartnett and Maseth had three of prep work it would ordinarily take, Hartnett and Maseth had three days days to appear before a federal court judge in Detroit, seek probable cause (PC), and line up the proper t.i.tle III Wiretap Intercept affidavits to roll tape and video the upcoming meeting. to appear before a federal court judge in Detroit, seek probable cause (PC), and line up the proper t.i.tle III Wiretap Intercept affidavits to roll tape and video the upcoming meeting.

With Maseth's growing knowledge of DiForti and the Fecarotta case and his criminal law background, he was named administrative agent for Operation Family Secrets. It was now his responsibility to take care of the technical details securing the wiretap at Milan. While Hartnett wrote and swore out the necessary affidavits in Detroit, Maseth made sure the paperwork between the courts and the Bureau was "administratively pure." affidavits in Detroit, Maseth made sure the paperwork between the courts and the Bureau was "administratively pure."

On Friday, February 19, 1999, the day of the Ricci and Doyle visit, permission for the wire had still not been granted. That morning, as Doyle and Ricci made their way up to Milan by automobile (a five-hour, 250-mile drive from Chicago), a federal court judge still hadn't given Hartnett and Maseth's wiretap the green light. The clock was ticking, with Hartnett stuck in the judge's Detroit chambers finalizing the t.i.tle III order. The delay left Maseth wringing his hands on the Milan prison grounds, where the warden held off any further action until they had permission. A holding cell next to the visitors' lounge was already set up for surveillance. With permission, Maseth would only have to slip into the adjoining room to monitor the video and sound of my father's noontime visit.

It was fast approaching noon. Mike Maseth and Kevin Blair sat in the warden's office waiting for the signed papers to arrive via the warden's personal fax machine. The operation would have to be aborted soon. Then Hartnett phoned Maseth at 11:45. The federal judge in Detroit had just signed off. The paperwork had been faxed. By 11:50 a.m., Agent Blair was waving the official paperwork-but he couldn't find the warden. He sat at the warden's desk and phoned Supervisor Bourgeois at the Chicago Bureau office.

My father was cautious during his meeting with Doyle and Ricci. The trio grabbed three white plastic chairs and huddled in the back corner of the lounge next to a hanging fire extinguisher. My dad spoke in such cryptic code that he sometimes got lost in his obscure jargon.

Here's the important stuff they discussed: The b.l.o.o.d.y gloves weighed heavily on everybody's mind. Twan confirmed that somebody named Lewis let it leave "the warehouse" on January 13.

Referring to Jimmy DiForti as "Rota," my dad wondered whether or not Rota was cooperating. He had viewed DiForti suspiciously ever since Jimmy LaPietra carelessly broke an Outfit code by telling DiForti about our role in the Fecarotta hit. ever since Jimmy LaPietra carelessly broke an Outfit code by telling DiForti about our role in the Fecarotta hit.

"What did he tell Scarpe Grande Scarpe Grande [code for the FBI]?" he asked Twan and Ricci. [code for the FBI]?" he asked Twan and Ricci.

It bothered him that DiForti had underboss Johnny Apes's ear. Could this be DiForti's opportunity to bury my father and uncle and skate on his own murder beef?

Caught on video, my dad referred to the b.l.o.o.d.y gloves as "the stuff being taken from the sister's purse," something that could hurt "the entire family," meaning the Outfit.

"Was anything mentioned to Pancho [Ronnie Jarrett] about the stuff being taken from the purse?" my father quizzed Doyle and Ricci. Pancho needed to be informed about the gloves situation so he could cover himself and Uncle Nick, considering the hits they'd both been involved in.

According to my father, Pancho needed to see "the doctor" (Chinatown Outfit a.s.sociate Frank "Toots" Caruso) about "those things stolen from the purse" and that the "other doctor in the hospital" (Jimmy Marcello) needed to be alerted by Mickey Marcello. ("What they should do is tell the doctor they want to see her.") Jimmy could then approach my uncle and a.s.sure him that everything was under control and to stay cool. Sensing the worst, my father remarked that "something stinks over there."

"It's a shame," he said. "...what they should do is maybe bring her [Nick] to see a psychiatrist [Jimmy Marcello] or something.... Not only that, but a psychiatrist would be able to determine if she needed shock treatment or, a, a, ah, prodder up her a.s.s.... Yeah, maybe a good physical."

Ironically, as my father commiserated in his ridiculous thick code with Doyle and Ricci about the dire consequences of the b.l.o.o.d.y gloves, he had no clue that the mysterious mole was right under his nose out on the Milan prison yard. Me.

Communication between my father and Doyle and Ricci continued for five more visits, until July 16, 2000, and all their conversations were caught on wiretap.

-- With the departure of Kevin Blair from the OC1 squad, the Two Mikes would lead the case as it gained momentum. While Hartnett remained the senior member of the two, Maseth was gaining more and more experience-and my personal trust-by the day.

As I contributed more information to the case, the Two Mikes would soon need to enlist extra agents to track down the numerous leads on the unsolved murders and illegal activities that my corroborating information provided. Speculation grew that Operation Family Secrets could be an even bigger organized crime case than the Bill JahodaRocky Infelise OC2 case of 1992.

The FBI met with me and discussed the danger of wearing a wire on a prison yard against my father. They advised me to think hard about how best to make the approach and get him talking. The closer it came to crunch time, the more I doubted whether I could get anything out of my dad out on the Milan yard.

By then we were down together (locked up) for a year. My dad knew I was doing my time well. If he had seen me having a hard time, he would have caught on right away. So we proceeded. First off, I had to get back on speaking terms with him. Next, I had to convince him that I wanted him and me to patch up our differences. But would he talk? Was he too smart? He didn't talk about the past, and if he did, it was often in an impenetrable code.

There was one sticking point the warden and the Bureau of Prisons had with the FBI about my wearing the wire. Because the prison was constructed out of concrete, I could not be monitored, which made it impossible for the FBI to listen in. If I ran into trouble, I was on my own and vulnerable, which made the BOP legally liable. n.o.body except the FBI, the Milan warden, and the head of the SIS knew that I was wired. What if I was discovered? What if I was suddenly targeted for murder by my father or an inmate (or a corrupt correctional officer) who might want a shot at a wired inmate? Six months had already pa.s.sed since my first letter was sent to Tom Bourgeois. Everybody was anxious to start taping. When the warden gave his approval, it was time to get to work.

Originally I had agreed that I would record one tape for the FBI out on the yard. If I could get my dad to admit to having taken part in the July 2, 1980, murders of Billy and Charlotte Dauber, that would be enough to open the door of self-incrimination. I knew he was involved in the hit, but wasn't aware of the extent.

Billy Dauber was drafted into the Chicago Outfit in the 1970s by James "Jimmy the Bomber" Catuara, who ran illegal gambling and vice on Chicago's South Side. Dauber had a fearsome reputation as an established killer and earner for the Outfit. As Catuara's protege, he was a suspect in more than twenty homicides and was active in illegal automobile chop shops, gambling, and prost.i.tution.

In November 1976, Dauber, Catuara's former protege, defected and joined Albert "Caesar" Tocco as his top enforcer. Almost two years later, on July 28, 1978, Jimmy the Bomber was found shot to death in his red Cadillac.

In 1979 Dauber was busted for intent to distribute cocaine along with a list of firearm violations. With the FBI, the DEA, and the ATF all over him, Dauber had to make a move. He and his outspoken wife, Charlotte, began cooperating with the ATF.

On July 2, 1980, Dauber and his wife left the Will County Court House trailed by three men in a work car. Those men included Butch Petrocelli and Jerry Scarpelli, members of the Joe Ferriola street crew and the Wild Bunch. The work car was a Ford Econoline van, a vehicle with a sliding side door that provided easy access for a shooter to kill his victims. To a.s.sist them and set up the victims properly, a second work car was driven by my father, who was forty-three at the time. Everything for the hit had to be covered. The Daubers had been followed for the previous two months by James "Dukey" Basile, a crew member who, because he didn't do "heavy work" (like killing people), was a.s.signed to detail their movements and habits.

Dauber, a giant of a man at six foot six and 290 pounds, had to have his junk-food fix. After stopping at a Winch.e.l.l's Donut shop with their lawyer, Ed Genson (who later defended rapper R. Kelly), and leaving a short time later, the Daubers drove off, followed by the two work cars. Moments later on an isolated stretch of road in Will County, my father swerved in front of the Daubers' Lincoln Continental, slowing it down. The van, meanwhile, quickly pulled alongside the Daubers' car, and as the Econoline's side door slid open, Petrocelli showered the car with .30-caliber sh.e.l.ls from his carbine. As the Daubers crashed into a large apple tree, Petrocelli ordered Scarpelli to make certain the job was done. Exiting the van with his ski mask on, Scarpelli approached the motionless car, where he pumped two shots into Dauber's head. He left Charlotte alone because she was already dead. The van was driven down the road to a remote spot, where it was saturated with Ronsonol lighter fluid (the solvent of choice for Outfit arsonists and murderers) and torched to destroy any physical evidence. Later that evening the murder weapons were dismantled, hacksawed into pieces, and thrown into the Cal Sag Ca.n.a.l off of the Route 83 Bridge. Dauber's ATF handler, Dennis Laughrey, later recounted how he had told Billy it would be a good idea if they had protection. He offered to escort them home. Dauber had refused. how he had told Billy it would be a good idea if they had protection. He offered to escort them home. Dauber had refused.

The prison yard at Milan was surrounded by a double fence with rolled barbed wire strewn across the top. Below were large jagged rocks and boulders-leg breakers-at the foot of the fencing. Inside the Milan yard was a softball field, basketball courts, and an outdoor weight pile, which were used mainly during the summer months. There were also boccie ball courts, picnic tables, and a half-mile asphalt track. Inmates could look over at neighboring farms and fields and into the prison parking lot.

Walking the outdoor half-mile asphalt track on the yard gave inmates a chance to escape the endless chatter that echoed inside the cell units. It was a secure area where my father and I could talk under the pretense of ironing out our troubled relations.h.i.+p. More important, my dad felt safe outdoors. While operating in Chicago, he insisted on talking "business" outside. When the other inmates saw him and me walking the yard together, they knew to keep their distance.

I got the first wired conversation rolling by bringing up what bothered me about my father's organized crime affiliations. I asked him point-blank, if the Outfit didn't kill innocent people, then how come Uncle Nick told me my dad had killed Dauber's wife? Of course, my uncle had told me no such story. It was actually my dad who had told me about the Daubers. I mentioned Uncle Nick's name just to get my father riled.

Dad's eyes opened wide. He went into a tirade, angry that Uncle Nick would run his mouth to me. I s.h.i.+fted the conversation to his relations.h.i.+p with his Outfit partners, taking an antagonistic view.

"I'm not scared of them," I said defiantly. "They're backstabbers, and if they try to come around to any businesses me, my friends, or the family have, they'll know they f.u.c.ked with the wrong person."

My dad stared back at me in amazement. "Does that include me, too?"

"It depends on whose side you want to be on," I answered.

My comments about the Outfit opened the door to a wider discussion. Respecting my newfound toughness and bitterness toward the Outfit, he seemed determined to win me back to his side by talking things out with me.

When I returned to the SIS office to remove the wire, I remarked to Hartnett how difficult it was to get my dad to talk. But I felt we'd scored some hard-hitting information. We had talked more about the Outfit. I had also brought up Angelo LaPietra. We had spoken about his having to take orders and report to the various underbosses and bosses-something he resented, although he had no ambition to become a boss.

A few days later, I received the bad news. A technical glitch in the prototype digital recorder had rendered our first conversation unintelligible. The malfunction sowed doubt and disappointment. Had I done the right thing risking my life in the first place? Were these guys competent? How was I going to get my father to talk about the same stuff over again?

The FBI agents were distressed that their equipment had malfunctioned. In the future the agents made sure I had two devices rolling, using one as backup. For one session, the backup was an old-fas.h.i.+oned a.n.a.log recorder that required me to be "wired up like a Christmas tree" and plastered with white tape on my chest. The recording device was fastened between my legs old-school-style and burned my t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es as I stood out on the yard.

The hardest part of the mission was getting back to my cell before correctional officers conducted the final count. Immediately after taping, I would leave the SIS office and scurry through a long hallway to reenter the main prison yard. If anybody spotted me coming from the SIS office out onto the yard, a rumor would spread that I was an informant.

I ventured onto the yard on Valentine's Day, 1999, for my second try. A portion of that day's conversations took place in the prison library, which explains why my father spoke in thick code that day. "Joy," "Slim," and "Gus" were code names for Nick. "The Tall Guy" and "the Small Guy" were both Ronnie Jarrett.

Jimmy DiForti was "Poker," "Rota" (Italian for "road"), "Tires" (because DiForti once had a tire shop in Cicero), or sometimes just plain Jimmy. Jimmy DiForti was "Poker," "Rota" (Italian for "road"), "Tires" (because DiForti once had a tire shop in Cicero), or sometimes just plain Jimmy.

It had snowed earlier that day and the air was brisk as we strolled around the asphalt track. To get the conversation moving, I suggested to him that based on a Chicago Tribune Chicago Tribune news article a friend had sent me in the mail, DiForti might be cooperating with the FBI. Otherwise, I asked, how else could DiForti be out on bail on a murder rap, violate his bond, and be back out on the street? This was a way to get him going. Then I brought up the Billy and Charlotte Dauber murders again. news article a friend had sent me in the mail, DiForti might be cooperating with the FBI. Otherwise, I asked, how else could DiForti be out on bail on a murder rap, violate his bond, and be back out on the street? This was a way to get him going. Then I brought up the Billy and Charlotte Dauber murders again.

"What happened with the Daubers?" I asked.

"Don't say that name," my dad shot back.

"What? Dauber?" I repeated on purpose. "What about the Daubers?"

"Dauber was very dangerous, six feet six inches, a big f.u.c.king hillbilly, biker type," he said. In my second taped conversation, the first successfully recorded, my father confirmed that, yes, it was he who drove the Mustang "casey" (as in casing) car at the Dauber hit, while Ronnie Jarrett rode shotgun. I couldn't believe he was talking about it so freely, so I pressed on, bringing up Charlotte Dauber as an unwitting victim caught in the trap with her husband, code-named "the Farmer" by my dad.

"They didn't do it on purpose," he said. "They couldn't say, 'Hey, move over.'"

To keep the dialogue moving, I used a trick my dad had taught me on the street: pit one person against the other. At the mention of Uncle Nick again, he maintained that the acrimony between him and his sons stemmed from my uncle "poisoning" our minds against him.

Uncle Nick wasn't completely innocent, according to my father. He then singled out my uncle for shooting and killing Arthur Morawski, an unfortunate bystander, while the pair was trying to kill the drug dealer Richard Ortiz. It was Nick who gunned down "an innocent Polish guy that worked every day from nine to five."

Ortiz wasn't paying his street tax, and he skimmed money from Dad's capo, Johnny Apes. Morawski, "the innocent Polish guy" with Ortiz, was not an intended target. Then my dad admitted he was the driver in the Half and Half Murder, while my uncle and Jimmy DiForti were the shooters.

On April 10, he recalled the Ortiz and Morawski hits, which took place in July 1983. He remembered having to prod Uncle Nick and DiForti out of the car to make the kill outside the His 'N' Mine Lounge in Cicero.

Calabrese Sr.: [Ortiz] was a dope dealer and he was, uh, he was, he was lendin' money out of his own. And he belonged to Johnny [Apes] at one time. [Ortiz] was a dope dealer and he was, uh, he was, he was lendin' money out of his own. And he belonged to Johnny [Apes] at one time.

Frank Jr.: He was Mexican. He was Mexican.

Calabrese Sr.: Mexican...We used...to call him half and half, because he was half Mexican and half somethin' else. Mexican...We used...to call him half and half, because he was half Mexican and half somethin' else.

Frank Jr.: Oh, okay. Oh, okay.

Calabrese Sr.: And, uh, where he got it, his friends were sittin' right across the street. And, uh, where he got it, his friends were sittin' right across the street.

Frank Jr.: Oh really? Oh really?

Calabrese Sr.: His friends were sittin' on a bench across the street. They couldn't even describe the car. Because you see how confusing things are when people... His friends were sittin' on a bench across the street. They couldn't even describe the car. Because you see how confusing things are when people...

Frank Jr.: Oh yeah. Oh yeah.

Calabrese Sr.: And he, the guy [Ortiz], they were pullin' over to park to go across the street.... As they pulled, I pulled [up] with 'em. And he, the guy [Ortiz], they were pullin' over to park to go across the street.... As they pulled, I pulled [up] with 'em.

Frank Jr.: Diagonal? Diagonal?