Friends of ours: Genovese Crime Family, Gambino Crime Family, Vincent "Chin" Gigante, Peter Gotti, George Barone, Lawrence Ricci
Friends of mine: Harold Daggett, Arthur Coffey
Harold Daggett, of Sparta, will likely find out in the next few days which story a federal jury in Brooklyn believes: that he is a hardworking mechanic who worked his way up the ranks of the waterfront union, or — as the U.S. government says — that he is a "longtime associate" of organized crime. If the jury opts for the latter, Daggett, a 59-year-old father of three, could be headed to prison for up to 20 years.
After hearing the case for seven weeks in U.S. District Court, jurors spent all day Thursday deliberating and will return Monday morning to continue. Lawyers in the case hope they will reach a verdict by midweek. Daggett, the assistant general organizer of the International Longshoreman's Association, was indicted last year along with fellow executive Arthur Coffey, of Florida. Both are charged with extortion conspiracy and fraud for allegedly steering lucrative union contracts to mob-controlled businesses.
It's the latest offensive aimed at rooting out Mafia corruption on the docks — something the government has been trying to do for decades, since Marlon Brando starred in the 1954 film "On the Waterfront." Only now, the goal might be in sight.
Control of the docks has historically been shared by two of the "five families" of the New York Mafia — with the Genovese family in Manhattan, New Jersey and South Florida, and the Gambino family in Brooklyn and Staten Island. With the bosses of both families, Vincent "Chin" Gigante and Peter Gotti, along with other prominent mobsters, now in prison, prosecutors have turned to the allegedly corrupt officials who did their bidding for decades. "This is a big case," a well-known mob expert said Friday. "They've got all the gangsters, (and) this is a particularly important follow-up or complement to that."
On the heels of the current criminal case, the government also has filed a civil lawsuit against the ILA seeking to have just about every current executive permanently barred from union activity. Court-appointed monitors would then oversee new union elections.
Roslynn Mauskopf, the U.S. attorney for the Eastern District of New York, said the lawsuit "seeks — once and for all — to end mob domination of this important labor union and put its future back into the hands of the rank-and-file members it was designed to serve."
The mob expert, who agreed to be quoted in this article on the condition that his name not be used, said the outcome of the Daggett-Coffey case may determine how the government will fare in the civil case — often called a "civil RICO" after the federal Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. "Once (the feds) can convict these honchos, it'll go a long way toward establishing their civil case," the expert said. "This'll be like icing on the cake."
Coffey's defense attorney, Gerald McMahon — who in his opening statement called the case a politically-motivated attempt by the Justice Department to take over the union — said essentially the same thing. "Everybody knows that if they get a criminal conviction, it makes the civil RICO a slam dunk," McMahon said.
The core of the government's case is a meeting six years ago at a Miami Beach steakhouse between ILA president John Bowers and Genovese soldier George Barone. Coffey allegedly brought Bowers to the meeting. Bowers later recalled the encounter in a sworn deposition before the Waterfront Commission of New York Harbor. "You're doing a wonderful job," he said Barone told him. "We hope you stay forever. But if you ever leave, I would like to see Harold Daggett become president."
Bowers had been backing a Texas man not controlled by the Genovese family to be his successor, and Barone was there to let him know that was not a good idea, the government says. When asked by investigators how he responded, Bowers was matter-of-fact: "I am alone, one-on-one. I know of his reputation; I am not going to ask a lot of questions. I am figuring now how the hell to get out of the place."
Barone, 81, who has admitted murdering at least 10 people in his decades as a mobster, became an informant to avoid prison after a 2001 arrest, and is now the star witness for the prosecution. How reliable the jurors found Barone, and several other turncoats who testified in the trial, could be the deciding factor in their verdict.
The case may also rest on how reliable they found Daggett himself, who took the stand in his own defense during the trial's final week and denied that he even knows any mobsters — except, of course, for George Barone, who he said once held a gun to his head when he was trying to move his local out of Manhattan. "There is no mob in my local," Daggett testified.
Daggett, a third-generation dockworker who now earns almost a half-million dollars between his two jobs as the ILA assistant general organizer and president of the North Bergen local, lives in a gated mansion set back from a neighborhood of small-by-comparison three-garage homes on Green Road in Sparta. He is a parishioner at Our Lady of the Lake Roman Catholic Church and has been portrayed in his defense as an upstanding member of the community who fights for the rights of his laborers.
Daggett's lawyer, George Daggett — his cousin and the former Sussex County prosecutor — called the government's case an "anti-union prosecution" in his three-hour closing argument last week. "I'm pleased with the way the case went in," George Daggett said Friday. He added that he was pleased with what he saw as positive reactions, from some jurors, to his impassioned summation.
The case has had its unexpected twists. In the past two months, for instance, the number of defendants has dwindled from four to two. Or, if you will, 2 1/2.
A third ILA executive, Albert Cernadas — who also headed the union local in Port Newark — was named in a superseding indictment earlier this year but pleaded guilty a week before the trial began to a reduced conspiracy charge. Under the plea deal, he agreed to sever all ties with the union and will likely avoid significant prison time. Then, halfway through the trial, another defendant, a reputed Genovese captain named Lawrence Ricci, disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Published reports cited investigative sources as saying they believed he had been killed by his fellow gangsters. However, Ricci remains merely "missing" in the eyes of the law, and he is still technically a defendant in the case. The judge in the case has instructed the jury not to draw any "negative inference" from his absence.
Thanks to BRENDAN BERLS
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Chicago Mob still in Vegas?
As political donors go, few are as colorful as Rick Rizzolo - a Las Vegas nightclub owner who contributed $1,500 in May to Orange County Sheriff Mike Carona's re-election campaign. Rizzolo, 47, owns the Crazy Horse Too topless club, which was raided in January by federal agents who arrested a shift manager on racketeering charges. A federal indictment in Nevada declared the club a "racketeering enterprise."
Crazy Horse Too has been under investigation since August 2001 for suspected fraud, illegal sexual activity and drug violations. Court documents also allege that Rizzolo repeatedly dined with mob underboss Joey "The Clown" Lombardo in Chicago - who disappeared after being indicted on murder charges. Court records, quoting the Chicago Tribune, add that Rizzolo also rubbed shoulders with high-ranking mobsters John "No-Nose" DiFronzo and his consigliere, Joe "The Builder" Andriacchi.
Besides his reported mob connections
, Rizzolo has a criminal record: he pleaded guilty in 1985 to battery for a baseball bat attack on a Crazy Horse patron, who suffered brain damage, records show.
Carona, who may be facing his toughest election in 2006 because of sex scandals and corruption charges surrounding his administration, declined to comment Wednesday. His political adviser Michael Schroeder said the campaign will look into the Rizzolo contribution and may return the money. Rizzolo owns a $1.2 million home in Newport Beach. "Obviously, Sheriff Carona had no idea about these alleged connections," said Schroeder. "No campaign has the resources, from the governor, the president, on down, to investigate every one of their donors."
However, Robert Stern, president of the nonpartisan Center for Governmental Studies and former general counsel to the California Fair Political Practices Commission, said Carona cannot claim ignorance. "Absolutely, they should be screening all the contributions to make sure they are not embarrassed," Stern said. "Candidates who say, 'I don't look (at) who contributes to me,' they are being foolish."
Phone messages left at Rizzolo's office at the Crazy Horse as well as with his Las Vegas attorney, Anthony Sgro, were not returned.
First elected in 1998, Carona has been slammed in recent years by criminal investigations into his command staff; sex allegations revealing a frat-boy atmosphere at sheriff's administrative offices; and a loss of credibility among his rank and file.
Recently, Carona was accused in two county liability claims of pressuring female relatives of former chief of staff George Jaramillo to have sex with him or accompany him to San Francisco. Jaramillo himself was indicted on state charges of using department resources to benefit a Newport Beach company that gave him money. The owner of that company, Charles Gabbard, admitted last year that he also funneled as much as $29,000 in illegal donations to Carona's 2002 campaign. Meanwhile, a sheriff's captain is facing criminal charges for soliciting donations from sheriff's employees for Carona's war chest, a violation of state campaign laws.
In each case, the sheriff denied wrongdoing or blamed others who he said acted behind his back.
Carona, through Schroeder, said he met Rizzolo two or three times but knew him only as someone from Newport Beach. Campaign documents initially listed Rizzolo as "owner, nightclub." Orange County political watchdog Shirley Grindle in late August contacted the Registrar of Voters Office and noted the nightclub should be identified in the financial disclosure. The documents were amended by the campaign last week to read "president/CEO Rizzolo Corporation." No such corporation could be found in California or Nevada.
Rizzolo's past is well-documented on the Internet, in Las Vegas newspapers and federal court records. He is a heavy contributor to Las Vegas City Council members, the district attorney and Nevada judges. His nightclub is legendary in the adult-entertainment world - and well-known to police and paramedics.
"For years, the management and 'security staff' of the Crazy Horse has been infested by a rogues' gallery of thugs, thieves, drug pushers and corrupt ex-cops. Most, if not all, have well documented ties to organized crime figures," said court papers filed by attorneys in a lawsuit against the nightclub. "All of this has nurtured a culture of violence marked by robberies, beatings and even death."
The lawsuit, as well as the federal indictment, were spurred by allegations of the beating of tourist Kirk Henry, who was left paralyzed from the neck down after he disputed a nightclub tab in September 2001. Crazy Horse lawyers have found a cab driver, also a chauffeur for the club, who said he saw Henry fall by himself and hit his head on the curb.
According to the indictment of shift manager Robert D'Apice, patrons who disputed fees demanded by dancers were threatened or physically assaulted by male staff members, amounting to extortion or robbery. The dancers paid a percentage of their tips to managers and staff members at the end of their shifts. The indictment indicates that federal agents are trying to determine whether D'Apice and club employees overcharged patrons for service, food and beverages; were involved in bringing women from outside Nevada to engage in prostitution and aided the distribution of illegal narcotics within the club.
Thanks to TONY SAAVEDRA and CHRIS KNAP
Crazy Horse Too has been under investigation since August 2001 for suspected fraud, illegal sexual activity and drug violations. Court documents also allege that Rizzolo repeatedly dined with mob underboss Joey "The Clown" Lombardo in Chicago - who disappeared after being indicted on murder charges. Court records, quoting the Chicago Tribune, add that Rizzolo also rubbed shoulders with high-ranking mobsters John "No-Nose" DiFronzo and his consigliere, Joe "The Builder" Andriacchi.
Besides his reported mob connections
, Rizzolo has a criminal record: he pleaded guilty in 1985 to battery for a baseball bat attack on a Crazy Horse patron, who suffered brain damage, records show.Carona, who may be facing his toughest election in 2006 because of sex scandals and corruption charges surrounding his administration, declined to comment Wednesday. His political adviser Michael Schroeder said the campaign will look into the Rizzolo contribution and may return the money. Rizzolo owns a $1.2 million home in Newport Beach. "Obviously, Sheriff Carona had no idea about these alleged connections," said Schroeder. "No campaign has the resources, from the governor, the president, on down, to investigate every one of their donors."
However, Robert Stern, president of the nonpartisan Center for Governmental Studies and former general counsel to the California Fair Political Practices Commission, said Carona cannot claim ignorance. "Absolutely, they should be screening all the contributions to make sure they are not embarrassed," Stern said. "Candidates who say, 'I don't look (at) who contributes to me,' they are being foolish."
Phone messages left at Rizzolo's office at the Crazy Horse as well as with his Las Vegas attorney, Anthony Sgro, were not returned.
First elected in 1998, Carona has been slammed in recent years by criminal investigations into his command staff; sex allegations revealing a frat-boy atmosphere at sheriff's administrative offices; and a loss of credibility among his rank and file.
Recently, Carona was accused in two county liability claims of pressuring female relatives of former chief of staff George Jaramillo to have sex with him or accompany him to San Francisco. Jaramillo himself was indicted on state charges of using department resources to benefit a Newport Beach company that gave him money. The owner of that company, Charles Gabbard, admitted last year that he also funneled as much as $29,000 in illegal donations to Carona's 2002 campaign. Meanwhile, a sheriff's captain is facing criminal charges for soliciting donations from sheriff's employees for Carona's war chest, a violation of state campaign laws.
In each case, the sheriff denied wrongdoing or blamed others who he said acted behind his back.
Carona, through Schroeder, said he met Rizzolo two or three times but knew him only as someone from Newport Beach. Campaign documents initially listed Rizzolo as "owner, nightclub." Orange County political watchdog Shirley Grindle in late August contacted the Registrar of Voters Office and noted the nightclub should be identified in the financial disclosure. The documents were amended by the campaign last week to read "president/CEO Rizzolo Corporation." No such corporation could be found in California or Nevada.
Rizzolo's past is well-documented on the Internet, in Las Vegas newspapers and federal court records. He is a heavy contributor to Las Vegas City Council members, the district attorney and Nevada judges. His nightclub is legendary in the adult-entertainment world - and well-known to police and paramedics.
"For years, the management and 'security staff' of the Crazy Horse has been infested by a rogues' gallery of thugs, thieves, drug pushers and corrupt ex-cops. Most, if not all, have well documented ties to organized crime figures," said court papers filed by attorneys in a lawsuit against the nightclub. "All of this has nurtured a culture of violence marked by robberies, beatings and even death."
The lawsuit, as well as the federal indictment, were spurred by allegations of the beating of tourist Kirk Henry, who was left paralyzed from the neck down after he disputed a nightclub tab in September 2001. Crazy Horse lawyers have found a cab driver, also a chauffeur for the club, who said he saw Henry fall by himself and hit his head on the curb.
According to the indictment of shift manager Robert D'Apice, patrons who disputed fees demanded by dancers were threatened or physically assaulted by male staff members, amounting to extortion or robbery. The dancers paid a percentage of their tips to managers and staff members at the end of their shifts. The indictment indicates that federal agents are trying to determine whether D'Apice and club employees overcharged patrons for service, food and beverages; were involved in bringing women from outside Nevada to engage in prostitution and aided the distribution of illegal narcotics within the club.
Thanks to TONY SAAVEDRA and CHRIS KNAP
Lawyer calls Mafia case 'anti-union'
Friends of ours: Genovese Crime Family, Lawrence Ricci
He had been talking for three hours straight, minus one 10-minute break, and George Daggett was just wrapping up his closing argument Tuesday afternoon in defense of his cousin, Harold, who is on trial on union corruption charges.
"The actions of Harold Daggett are inconsistent with the government's case," Daggett told the 12 jurors and two alternates as he concluded.
Seconds later, after Daggett said "Thank you" and strode back toward the defense table, half the courtroom gallery — a few dozen family members and supporters — erupted into applause.
That didn't sit well with the judge, who had barely said a word all day.
"Another outburst like that, and I'll exclude you from the courtroom," U.S. District Court Judge I. Leo Glasser said, rising to his feet. "That's inappropriate behavior, and I'll have none of it."
Glasser's brief chiding was merely a punctuation mark at the close of a lengthy day in court, during which the jury heard the end of the government's closing argument and two out of three defense lawyers'.
Harold Daggett, a Sparta resident and top executive in the International Longshoreman's Association, is charged along with fellow executive Arthur Coffey with extortion conspiracy and mail fraud in connection with the union's reputed ties with the Genovese crime family.
A third defendant, reputed Genovese captain Lawrence Ricci, disappeared midway through the trial, which started Sept. 20. He is unofficially believed to have been killed, but the jurors have been told not to draw any "negative inference" from his unexplained absence.
Ricci's lawyer, Martin Schmukler, also gave his closing argument Tuesday, speaking for about an hour. Schmulker's closing drew mainly on the argument that, outside the questionable testimony of several mob informants, there is no evidence against his client "other than a person socializing with other people."
Schmukler also drew laughter from the courtroom when he held up an unflattering mug shot of Ricci — introduced into evidence after Ricci disappeared — and said, "I'd be afraid to show this picture to his mother."
George Daggett, in his closing, was likewise dismissive of the informants' testimony — especially one of the government's star witnesses, former hit-man George Barone — but also went on the attack against the government lawyers, accusing them of bending facts and changing dates in order to get a conviction. "This is an anti-union prosecution," Daggett said more than once.
Daggett also painted his client as an honest man who, in moving his ILA local from Manhattan to North Bergen, kept it out of Mafia control. For instance, when Harold Daggett was made the secretary-treasurer of the northeastern district of the ILA, he refused to hire a mob accountant known as "Tax Doctor" to handle the funds.
"He (instead) went to Father Cassidy, in Sparta Township, out by the Delaware Water Gap," George Daggett said. "Is that an associate of the Genovese family, who takes $18 million and puts it under the care of a guy that was recommended by the parish priest?"
Tuesday was the second full day of closing arguments. Gerald McMahon, Coffey's attorney, will give his summation today, followed by a "rebuttal summation" in which the government can respond to the defense lawyers' statements. Glasser will then issue his instructions to the jury before they begin deliberating.
He had been talking for three hours straight, minus one 10-minute break, and George Daggett was just wrapping up his closing argument Tuesday afternoon in defense of his cousin, Harold, who is on trial on union corruption charges.
"The actions of Harold Daggett are inconsistent with the government's case," Daggett told the 12 jurors and two alternates as he concluded.
Seconds later, after Daggett said "Thank you" and strode back toward the defense table, half the courtroom gallery — a few dozen family members and supporters — erupted into applause.
That didn't sit well with the judge, who had barely said a word all day.
"Another outburst like that, and I'll exclude you from the courtroom," U.S. District Court Judge I. Leo Glasser said, rising to his feet. "That's inappropriate behavior, and I'll have none of it."
Glasser's brief chiding was merely a punctuation mark at the close of a lengthy day in court, during which the jury heard the end of the government's closing argument and two out of three defense lawyers'.
Harold Daggett, a Sparta resident and top executive in the International Longshoreman's Association, is charged along with fellow executive Arthur Coffey with extortion conspiracy and mail fraud in connection with the union's reputed ties with the Genovese crime family.
A third defendant, reputed Genovese captain Lawrence Ricci, disappeared midway through the trial, which started Sept. 20. He is unofficially believed to have been killed, but the jurors have been told not to draw any "negative inference" from his unexplained absence.
Ricci's lawyer, Martin Schmukler, also gave his closing argument Tuesday, speaking for about an hour. Schmulker's closing drew mainly on the argument that, outside the questionable testimony of several mob informants, there is no evidence against his client "other than a person socializing with other people."
Schmukler also drew laughter from the courtroom when he held up an unflattering mug shot of Ricci — introduced into evidence after Ricci disappeared — and said, "I'd be afraid to show this picture to his mother."
George Daggett, in his closing, was likewise dismissive of the informants' testimony — especially one of the government's star witnesses, former hit-man George Barone — but also went on the attack against the government lawyers, accusing them of bending facts and changing dates in order to get a conviction. "This is an anti-union prosecution," Daggett said more than once.
Daggett also painted his client as an honest man who, in moving his ILA local from Manhattan to North Bergen, kept it out of Mafia control. For instance, when Harold Daggett was made the secretary-treasurer of the northeastern district of the ILA, he refused to hire a mob accountant known as "Tax Doctor" to handle the funds.
"He (instead) went to Father Cassidy, in Sparta Township, out by the Delaware Water Gap," George Daggett said. "Is that an associate of the Genovese family, who takes $18 million and puts it under the care of a guy that was recommended by the parish priest?"
Tuesday was the second full day of closing arguments. Gerald McMahon, Coffey's attorney, will give his summation today, followed by a "rebuttal summation" in which the government can respond to the defense lawyers' statements. Glasser will then issue his instructions to the jury before they begin deliberating.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Mafia informant made a lasting impression
Friends of mine: Paddy Calabrese
Mafia informant Paddy Calabrese was a friend of mine - sort of. News of his death last month from a massive heart attack triggered reminders of the tricky path reporters sometimes tread when they deal with sources. In Calabrese's case, the path extended over more than 30 years. Calabrese was the first person to be given a new identity by the government in exchange for his testimony against Buffalo mob chieftains. His case led to the creation of the Witness Security Program, and fortified a law enforcement experiment we know today as federal strike forces.
Calabrese was clandestinely moved from Buffalo with his wife, her two children from a previous marriage and their child. It was his wife's first husband's search for his children that led to my introduction to Paddy Calabrese. We met so he could tell me his side of the story - how he managed to elude the mob in his new life, how he raised his stepchildren as if they were his own, why he decided to break the Mafia code of silence and what he hoped to accomplish in life.
On occasion, when he returned to Buffalo, we met for lunch. He never looked furtively around to see who might be in the restaurant. He never showed concern that, as federal agents said, he was marked for death by the Mafia. Always, he was upbeat, full of braggadocio. He boasted often about how he had obtained a license to carry a firearm even though he was a convicted felon.
He reveled in describing his exploits in working undercover to help cops catch criminals. He made no secret of who he was or where he lived. After a few years of using phony identities, he returned to his given name. His business card for the detective agency he ran read "Patrick "Paddy' Calabrese." For years I kept it hidden in my Rolodex for fear the wrong eyes might learn his whereabouts.
Through the years I wondered why Calabrese stayed in touch, why he confided in me. It was, I imagine, because I was a link to his hometown and to his heritage.
He told me when we first met that my Sicilian ancestry meant I understood him. I nodded, but didn't agree. I think it was more likely that he wanted validation. Testifying against his fellow mobsters was unheard of in the 1960s when the Buffalo "arm" was thriving and ruled with an iron hand. By talking to a reporter, Calabrese, it seemed to me, was searching for approval that what he did was right. And, of course it was, but not to the people he had associated with all his life.
He did so because his family was not being taken care of by the mob after his arrest for the brazen daytime holdup of the treasurer's office in Buffalo's City Hall. In reality, his mob bosses most likely considered him a loose cannon not worthy of supporting. But to Calabrese, no money given to his family and the prospect of a long stretch behind bars were sufficient reasons to become the first Buffalo mobster to testify against his bosses.
That decision eventually turned out to be the first nail in the coffin of the Buffalo Mafia. As far as I know, he never regretted rejecting his underworld edict about not talking about Mafia affairs. But then again, out of fear it would be a sign of weakness, he probably never would have told me if he did.
However, the one prediction he always made to me did come true - he died from natural causes and not from a Mafia bullet.
Thanks to Lee Coppola, the dean of the journalism school at St. Bonaventure University in New York, for providing his viewpoint to us.
Mafia informant Paddy Calabrese was a friend of mine - sort of. News of his death last month from a massive heart attack triggered reminders of the tricky path reporters sometimes tread when they deal with sources. In Calabrese's case, the path extended over more than 30 years. Calabrese was the first person to be given a new identity by the government in exchange for his testimony against Buffalo mob chieftains. His case led to the creation of the Witness Security Program, and fortified a law enforcement experiment we know today as federal strike forces.
Calabrese was clandestinely moved from Buffalo with his wife, her two children from a previous marriage and their child. It was his wife's first husband's search for his children that led to my introduction to Paddy Calabrese. We met so he could tell me his side of the story - how he managed to elude the mob in his new life, how he raised his stepchildren as if they were his own, why he decided to break the Mafia code of silence and what he hoped to accomplish in life.
On occasion, when he returned to Buffalo, we met for lunch. He never looked furtively around to see who might be in the restaurant. He never showed concern that, as federal agents said, he was marked for death by the Mafia. Always, he was upbeat, full of braggadocio. He boasted often about how he had obtained a license to carry a firearm even though he was a convicted felon.
He reveled in describing his exploits in working undercover to help cops catch criminals. He made no secret of who he was or where he lived. After a few years of using phony identities, he returned to his given name. His business card for the detective agency he ran read "Patrick "Paddy' Calabrese." For years I kept it hidden in my Rolodex for fear the wrong eyes might learn his whereabouts.
Through the years I wondered why Calabrese stayed in touch, why he confided in me. It was, I imagine, because I was a link to his hometown and to his heritage.
He told me when we first met that my Sicilian ancestry meant I understood him. I nodded, but didn't agree. I think it was more likely that he wanted validation. Testifying against his fellow mobsters was unheard of in the 1960s when the Buffalo "arm" was thriving and ruled with an iron hand. By talking to a reporter, Calabrese, it seemed to me, was searching for approval that what he did was right. And, of course it was, but not to the people he had associated with all his life.
He did so because his family was not being taken care of by the mob after his arrest for the brazen daytime holdup of the treasurer's office in Buffalo's City Hall. In reality, his mob bosses most likely considered him a loose cannon not worthy of supporting. But to Calabrese, no money given to his family and the prospect of a long stretch behind bars were sufficient reasons to become the first Buffalo mobster to testify against his bosses.
That decision eventually turned out to be the first nail in the coffin of the Buffalo Mafia. As far as I know, he never regretted rejecting his underworld edict about not talking about Mafia affairs. But then again, out of fear it would be a sign of weakness, he probably never would have told me if he did.
However, the one prediction he always made to me did come true - he died from natural causes and not from a Mafia bullet.
Thanks to Lee Coppola, the dean of the journalism school at St. Bonaventure University in New York, for providing his viewpoint to us.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Showtime's Brotherhood
An enraged construction worker will beat a mob leader to death with a shovel. A frustrated housewife will cheat on her politically prominent husband. A mother will hoard and then dispose of a stash of ill-gotten cash. And authorities will discreetly snap photos of known criminals, from a distance.
It's not ''The Sopranos," but it promises to be just as gritty. Yet on the cramped living-room set of ''Brotherhood," a TV series about the mob shooting in Providence for the cable network Showtime, the characters are making nice. It's the birthday of mobster protagonist Michael Caffee, who has just stepped into his mother's home with a female companion, unaware of pending events.
''Surprise!
" people shout as Caffee (played by Jason Isaacs) opens the front door.
Caffee, it appears, doesn't like surprises, especially when he's in the company of a woman everyone knows is married to someone else. The set is as silent as a tomb.
''Look what the cat dragged in," his mother, Rose (Fionnula Flanagan), says quietly.
''Ma," says Caffee in a warning tone. ''You remember Kath McCarthy, she's . . . a friend of mine?"
''How could I not?" Rose says. ''Happy birthday, Michael."
''Cut!" director Nick Gomez announces.
With just five months to go until the highly anticipated sixth season of HBO's ''Sopranos," Showtime is hustling to produce its own mob story. But executives don't want to stress the comparison. The network, in mobspeak, plans to come heavy with its own thing.
''Brotherhood" will follow the lives of an Irish mobster in Providence and his brother, a member of the Rhode Island House of Representatives who is under a lot of pressure from his sibling's associates to bend the rules. The series, which is loaded with racial and socio-economic tensions, is inspired by the real-life brotherhood of Boston's William Bulger, the former state senator and university president, and James ''Whitey" Bulger, one of the FBI's most-wanted fugitives. But the program, which was originally set in Boston and called ''Southie," is not biographical, its creator insists. ''I didn't want to do their story," says Blake Masters, executive producer, in an interview in his office here. ''The idea of telling a story through two brothers is just an interesting dynamic."
Clearly, the Caffee brothers are not the Bulgers, most notably because they live in Providence and aren't nearly as powerful in their respective circles as the Bulgers were. Michael Caffee was once in line to run the show locally but fell out of favor with the reigning crime boss because of an unauthorized killing. After seven years on the run for the murder, he's back in Providence to reclaim his territory. Tommy Caffee (Australian actor Jason Clarke) is his younger brother, a rising star in the state house whose link to Michael makes his professional life murky as underworld types lean on him for state-sponsored favors. Masters says he moved the series to Rhode Island because, in the wake of the Boston-based feature films ''Mystic River" and ''The Departed," Providence is ''less explored" terrain.
Now 29 years old, Showtime has struggled to define itself in the changing television landscape. Although it recently won its first Emmy (a supporting actress nod for Blythe Danner in ''Huff"), the network's original programming has been heavily niche-oriented (the African-American drama ''Soul Food," the gay-themed ''Queer as Folk") or has fizzled after early buzz (the comedy ''Fat Actress").
Now, though, Showtime may have momentum. ''Huff" will return next year as will ''Weeds," a comedy about a pot-dealing suburban widow, which has become the network's highest-rated show. In December, Showtime will premiere ''Sleeper Cell," a miniseries about a Muslim, African-American FBI agent who infiltrates a terrorist cell in Los Angeles.
''Brotherhood" is expected to premiere in May or June.
''We are focused on critical acclaim and buzz and awards, more than on how many people are watching," says Robert Greenblatt, president of entertainment for Showtime, which has 13 million subscribers (HBO has 30 million). ''We want to air controversial, edgy subject matter and flawed characters that aren't allowed on broadcast television," he says. ''We only do a handful of shows a year, so each one has to be something you'd write home about."
The challenge for Showtime is getting viewers not to view the show as a takeoff on ''The Sopranos." ''It will never compare," Greenblatt says. ''We are in Mafia territory, but it's not the mainstay of the show. What's more interesting is to see a family where there are two brothers who have chosen very different paths. The good brother is in a business that is inherently bad [politics]. He has to do things for the greater good that aren't always completely upstanding. Conversely, the guy who wears the black hat [the mobster] actually does some incredibly benevolent things. It's the gray area of all of that that's most interesting."
Here on the set, which includes a nonworking kitchen with real canned beef stew on the stove, as well as faux marble hallways replicating the State House, playfulness is in the air. Idle crew members are hitting a ball with a bat in one corner of the warehouse while others are hovering around buffet tables loaded with cookies, cakes, and brownies.
''Jason! They have your [character's] business card in here with an address and everything," says Isaacs, 42, who is lounging in Tommy Caffee's state house office.
Clarke, who broke into Hollywood three years ago with ''Rabbit-Proof Fence," pops his head inside the office to glance at the cards before returning to business. The 36-year-old actor has been doing extensive research on the Bulgers and Rhode Island politics to prepare for his role. He met with a number of legislators, including the real-life Rhode Island Speaker of the House William Murphy. Clarke also sat in on a few House committee meetings.
''I know every politician in the state," he brags. Murphy has even advised Clarke on what to wear to church in the series. ''They wanted me to wear a suit, but Bill said that's too dressy. A sweater and khakis pants is better," Clarke says.
True to his character, Clarke, who says he was apathetic growing up in Australia, is conflicted about the gray nature of politics in his scripts. ''I'm always thinking, 'This is really dodgy mate. Is this right or wrong?' "
British-born Isaacs, who stopped production briefly in September after his wife gave birth to their second child here, is less concerned about Michael's soul. ''What's criminal?" he says. ''In England, you can bet on when the queen is going to die and that's perfectly legal. . . . If you think the whole system is corrupt, then living outside of it makes perfect sense."
Upstairs in his office, Masters is tinkering with his story lines as he prepares for a read-through of the next day's script with the cast. Greenblatt will listen in via telephone from Los Angeles. For the 34-year-old producer, this show is more than just entertainment. It's a chance to look at a bygone era when ward-style politics dominated immigrant neighborhoods in cities such as Chicago and New York and corruption was king.
''Although those cities have rooted out a lot of the bad, there were good things that were lost too," he says. ''We lost a personal connection to our local politicians. The idea that when a family member died, your politician would come by the house and make sure that you had money for the funeral."
Masters calls that political behavior ''ancient history" in Boston. Rhode Island, he adds, is a different story. ''Rhode Island is referred to as the world's biggest high school . . . Many of the cops, criminals, priests, and lawyers all went to the same schools, they attend the same churches, their wives exchange recipes. I want to explore the contradictions in those relationships -- the idea that the guy who played softball with you in high school is the guy responsible for arresting you today."
As a backdrop, Masters will portray the angst of lower-middle class Irish ''getting squeezed" by the influx of Southeast Asians, Latinos, and yuppies bent on gentrification. Reacting to racial stereotypes and economic pressures, some of his Irish characters will lash out in ugly ways, he says. ''I want your skin to crawl. I want you to be repelled by it. We want you to be horrified by these nice, sweet people who are nice one day, talking about baseball. Then they bash someone's head in and then go back to talking about baseball."
Kevin Chapman, who grew up in Dorchester, is all for the bashing scenes. Just back from filming Clint Eastwood's film ''Flags of Our Fathers," the actor is excited to play the cocky and portly mob boss Freddie Cork . ''It's fun to get dark and almost diabolical," says the actor. ''My character runs the neighborhood. I'm in charge."
''Quiet!" a nearby crew member yells as Chapman chats away. ''We're shooting."
On the set today, Gomez -- not Chapman -- is in charge. And the birthday party is over. ''We're moving on," Gomez announces, signaling to the crew to set up for the next scene.
It's Showtime's hope that viewers will move along with him.
Thanks to Suzanne C. Ryan
It's not ''The Sopranos," but it promises to be just as gritty. Yet on the cramped living-room set of ''Brotherhood," a TV series about the mob shooting in Providence for the cable network Showtime, the characters are making nice. It's the birthday of mobster protagonist Michael Caffee, who has just stepped into his mother's home with a female companion, unaware of pending events.
''Surprise!
" people shout as Caffee (played by Jason Isaacs) opens the front door.Caffee, it appears, doesn't like surprises, especially when he's in the company of a woman everyone knows is married to someone else. The set is as silent as a tomb.
''Look what the cat dragged in," his mother, Rose (Fionnula Flanagan), says quietly.
''Ma," says Caffee in a warning tone. ''You remember Kath McCarthy, she's . . . a friend of mine?"
''How could I not?" Rose says. ''Happy birthday, Michael."
''Cut!" director Nick Gomez announces.
With just five months to go until the highly anticipated sixth season of HBO's ''Sopranos," Showtime is hustling to produce its own mob story. But executives don't want to stress the comparison. The network, in mobspeak, plans to come heavy with its own thing.
''Brotherhood" will follow the lives of an Irish mobster in Providence and his brother, a member of the Rhode Island House of Representatives who is under a lot of pressure from his sibling's associates to bend the rules. The series, which is loaded with racial and socio-economic tensions, is inspired by the real-life brotherhood of Boston's William Bulger, the former state senator and university president, and James ''Whitey" Bulger, one of the FBI's most-wanted fugitives. But the program, which was originally set in Boston and called ''Southie," is not biographical, its creator insists. ''I didn't want to do their story," says Blake Masters, executive producer, in an interview in his office here. ''The idea of telling a story through two brothers is just an interesting dynamic."
Clearly, the Caffee brothers are not the Bulgers, most notably because they live in Providence and aren't nearly as powerful in their respective circles as the Bulgers were. Michael Caffee was once in line to run the show locally but fell out of favor with the reigning crime boss because of an unauthorized killing. After seven years on the run for the murder, he's back in Providence to reclaim his territory. Tommy Caffee (Australian actor Jason Clarke) is his younger brother, a rising star in the state house whose link to Michael makes his professional life murky as underworld types lean on him for state-sponsored favors. Masters says he moved the series to Rhode Island because, in the wake of the Boston-based feature films ''Mystic River" and ''The Departed," Providence is ''less explored" terrain.
Now 29 years old, Showtime has struggled to define itself in the changing television landscape. Although it recently won its first Emmy (a supporting actress nod for Blythe Danner in ''Huff"), the network's original programming has been heavily niche-oriented (the African-American drama ''Soul Food," the gay-themed ''Queer as Folk") or has fizzled after early buzz (the comedy ''Fat Actress").
Now, though, Showtime may have momentum. ''Huff" will return next year as will ''Weeds," a comedy about a pot-dealing suburban widow, which has become the network's highest-rated show. In December, Showtime will premiere ''Sleeper Cell," a miniseries about a Muslim, African-American FBI agent who infiltrates a terrorist cell in Los Angeles.
''Brotherhood" is expected to premiere in May or June.
''We are focused on critical acclaim and buzz and awards, more than on how many people are watching," says Robert Greenblatt, president of entertainment for Showtime, which has 13 million subscribers (HBO has 30 million). ''We want to air controversial, edgy subject matter and flawed characters that aren't allowed on broadcast television," he says. ''We only do a handful of shows a year, so each one has to be something you'd write home about."
The challenge for Showtime is getting viewers not to view the show as a takeoff on ''The Sopranos." ''It will never compare," Greenblatt says. ''We are in Mafia territory, but it's not the mainstay of the show. What's more interesting is to see a family where there are two brothers who have chosen very different paths. The good brother is in a business that is inherently bad [politics]. He has to do things for the greater good that aren't always completely upstanding. Conversely, the guy who wears the black hat [the mobster] actually does some incredibly benevolent things. It's the gray area of all of that that's most interesting."
Here on the set, which includes a nonworking kitchen with real canned beef stew on the stove, as well as faux marble hallways replicating the State House, playfulness is in the air. Idle crew members are hitting a ball with a bat in one corner of the warehouse while others are hovering around buffet tables loaded with cookies, cakes, and brownies.
''Jason! They have your [character's] business card in here with an address and everything," says Isaacs, 42, who is lounging in Tommy Caffee's state house office.
Clarke, who broke into Hollywood three years ago with ''Rabbit-Proof Fence," pops his head inside the office to glance at the cards before returning to business. The 36-year-old actor has been doing extensive research on the Bulgers and Rhode Island politics to prepare for his role. He met with a number of legislators, including the real-life Rhode Island Speaker of the House William Murphy. Clarke also sat in on a few House committee meetings.
''I know every politician in the state," he brags. Murphy has even advised Clarke on what to wear to church in the series. ''They wanted me to wear a suit, but Bill said that's too dressy. A sweater and khakis pants is better," Clarke says.
True to his character, Clarke, who says he was apathetic growing up in Australia, is conflicted about the gray nature of politics in his scripts. ''I'm always thinking, 'This is really dodgy mate. Is this right or wrong?' "
British-born Isaacs, who stopped production briefly in September after his wife gave birth to their second child here, is less concerned about Michael's soul. ''What's criminal?" he says. ''In England, you can bet on when the queen is going to die and that's perfectly legal. . . . If you think the whole system is corrupt, then living outside of it makes perfect sense."
Upstairs in his office, Masters is tinkering with his story lines as he prepares for a read-through of the next day's script with the cast. Greenblatt will listen in via telephone from Los Angeles. For the 34-year-old producer, this show is more than just entertainment. It's a chance to look at a bygone era when ward-style politics dominated immigrant neighborhoods in cities such as Chicago and New York and corruption was king.
''Although those cities have rooted out a lot of the bad, there were good things that were lost too," he says. ''We lost a personal connection to our local politicians. The idea that when a family member died, your politician would come by the house and make sure that you had money for the funeral."
Masters calls that political behavior ''ancient history" in Boston. Rhode Island, he adds, is a different story. ''Rhode Island is referred to as the world's biggest high school . . . Many of the cops, criminals, priests, and lawyers all went to the same schools, they attend the same churches, their wives exchange recipes. I want to explore the contradictions in those relationships -- the idea that the guy who played softball with you in high school is the guy responsible for arresting you today."
As a backdrop, Masters will portray the angst of lower-middle class Irish ''getting squeezed" by the influx of Southeast Asians, Latinos, and yuppies bent on gentrification. Reacting to racial stereotypes and economic pressures, some of his Irish characters will lash out in ugly ways, he says. ''I want your skin to crawl. I want you to be repelled by it. We want you to be horrified by these nice, sweet people who are nice one day, talking about baseball. Then they bash someone's head in and then go back to talking about baseball."
Kevin Chapman, who grew up in Dorchester, is all for the bashing scenes. Just back from filming Clint Eastwood's film ''Flags of Our Fathers," the actor is excited to play the cocky and portly mob boss Freddie Cork . ''It's fun to get dark and almost diabolical," says the actor. ''My character runs the neighborhood. I'm in charge."
''Quiet!" a nearby crew member yells as Chapman chats away. ''We're shooting."
On the set today, Gomez -- not Chapman -- is in charge. And the birthday party is over. ''We're moving on," Gomez announces, signaling to the crew to set up for the next scene.
It's Showtime's hope that viewers will move along with him.
Thanks to Suzanne C. Ryan
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