Friends of ours: Gregory Scarpa
Friends of mine: Louis Eppolito, Stephen Caracappa
A private investigator, who helped prosecutors look into several mob murders, was attacked in her car at the intersection of the Shore Parkway and the Bay Parkway in Brooklyn. She was found inside her car, strangled but still alive.
Angela Clemente was involved in many cases for Congress and local prosecutors. Investigators are concerned that that someone strangled Angela Clemente because of her work exposing corruption.
Some detectives wonder what really happened to Ms. Clemente, but police said she told them her attacker was a white man who drove off in a black car. In a statement, the Brooklyn D.A. said, "This is of great concern for us. We have a very active investigation going."
Clemente told detectives that she went to that part of Brooklyn to meet a possible source, after finding a note on her car windshield Thursday night in New Jersey to be there.
Last march Brooklyn D.A. Charles Hynes announced the arrest of former FBI supervisor Lindley de Vecchio, essentially charging him with protecting mob capo Gregory Scarpa Sr. Angela Clemente did a lot of the legwork that led to indictments in that case.
Her work also led to the investigation of the so-called mafia cops Louis Eppolito and Stephen Caracappa. It is unknown at this time whether this work led to her attack.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Friday, June 16, 2006
A Family Torn Apart by Mafia Cops
Friends of ours: Anthony "Gaspipe" Casso
Friends of mine: Louie Eppolito, Steven Caracappa
On Easter Sunday, Mike Guido inched along the Gowanus Expressway, his mother Pauline beside him in a fog of sadness.
Mike had just taken his mother to Green-Wood Cemetery to visit the graves of his father, Gabe, and brother, Nicky, who lay side by side on a verdant hillock just inside the fence at 20th St. and Prospect Park West, three heartbreaking blocks from where Nicky had been murdered by mob hit men on Christmas Day 20 years earlier, in a grotesque case of mistaken identity.
The name "Nicky Guido" had been passed to a homicidal maniac hoodlum named Anthony (Gaspipe) Casso by two NYPD detectives named Louie Eppolito and Steven Caracappa as one of those responsible for trying to kill Casso in a mob hit. Problem was that when the Mafia cops demanded $4,000 for Nicky Guido's home address, Casso balked and decided to get it free from "the gas company."
Which led to the murder of an innocent 26-year-old telephone company worker named Nicky Guido from 17th St. in Windsor Terrace, who had zero affiliation with the mob. "If Eppolito and Caracappa had never given the name Nicky Guido to middleman Burt Kaplan, who gave it to Casso, my brother would still be alive today," Mike Guido says.
On April 6, the Mafia cops were found guilty in Brooklyn Federal Court for the murder of Nicky Guido and seven others whose bodies popped up on the streets of Brooklyn like morning mushrooms in the worst case of police corruption in NYPD history.
These cops used their gold shields, handcuffs, and twirling lights and police sirens to run around the Borough of Churches killing and kidnapping people like fascist assassins in some despotic police state. Two of their victims, Israel Greenwald and Jimmy Hydell, became members of the "disappeared" like those who Jack Lemmon searched for in "Missing."
In 2005, Greenwald's body was exhumed from his grave in the cement floor of Garage #4 of a parking lot at 2232 Nostrand Ave., just blocks from where his shattered family had moved after losing their Lawrence, L.I., house when the family breadwinner vanished. "Thank you, thank you, thank you Lady Justice," Mike Guido said after jury found the Mafia cop guilty on all 70 counts. And so it was that on Easter Sunday following the verdict Mike Guido took his mother to visit his brother's grave. Buds popped, birds sang, sun shone as his mother placed flowers before a smooth marble stone that bore her son Nicky's name. She also put flowers on the grave of Gabe Guido, her husband, who'd died from a broken heart three years after his son was murdered.
"Then, after, when we sat on the Gowanus in traffic, on the way to Staten Island to eat Easter dinner in my sister-in-law's house, I looked to the right," says Mike Guido. "And there was Bush Terminal, where my father worked in an envelope factory to raise me and Nicky."
Then his mother nudged him and pointed to another austere building, and he realized it was the Brooklyn Federal lockup. "That where they are?" she asked.
"Yeah, Ma, that's where Eppolito and Caracappa will be eatin' Easter dinner."
"Good," she said. "Maybe we should send them a few jellybeans."
Mike Guido passes that jailhouse almost every day on the way to work. "I smile every time, knowing they're in that hellhole," he said. "And that they'll be going somewhere even worse to die in little cages like the animals they are."
Last week, Mike Guido decided to pass up the opportunity to read an impact statement at the sentencing of Eppolito and Caracappa, where they got life without possibility of parole.
"To start with, I had to go to work," he says, a concept lost on crooked cops and cheap hoods. "Secondly, they're beneath my contempt. I wouldn't waste my breath. There's a homeless guy who stands on 42nd St. and Seventh Ave. in Manhattan with a sign that says you can tell him off for one dollar. I'd rather give him a buck and tell him what I think of Eppolito and Caracappa than make a special trip to tell them."
Instead, on Father's Day Mike Guido will pick up his mother and make a special trip to Green-Wood Cemetery to pray over the graves of his brother and his father, who loved his sons so much that the loss of his youngest took away his very will to live.
"My brother was murdered 20 years ago," Mike Guido says. "But Eppolito's and Caracappa's life sentences are just about to start. I can feel my old man smiling. So on this Father's Day, both Nicky and my father can finally rest in peace. Together ..."
Thanks to Denis Hamill
Friends of mine: Louie Eppolito, Steven Caracappa
On Easter Sunday, Mike Guido inched along the Gowanus Expressway, his mother Pauline beside him in a fog of sadness.
Mike had just taken his mother to Green-Wood Cemetery to visit the graves of his father, Gabe, and brother, Nicky, who lay side by side on a verdant hillock just inside the fence at 20th St. and Prospect Park West, three heartbreaking blocks from where Nicky had been murdered by mob hit men on Christmas Day 20 years earlier, in a grotesque case of mistaken identity.
The name "Nicky Guido" had been passed to a homicidal maniac hoodlum named Anthony (Gaspipe) Casso by two NYPD detectives named Louie Eppolito and Steven Caracappa as one of those responsible for trying to kill Casso in a mob hit. Problem was that when the Mafia cops demanded $4,000 for Nicky Guido's home address, Casso balked and decided to get it free from "the gas company."
Which led to the murder of an innocent 26-year-old telephone company worker named Nicky Guido from 17th St. in Windsor Terrace, who had zero affiliation with the mob. "If Eppolito and Caracappa had never given the name Nicky Guido to middleman Burt Kaplan, who gave it to Casso, my brother would still be alive today," Mike Guido says.
On April 6, the Mafia cops were found guilty in Brooklyn Federal Court for the murder of Nicky Guido and seven others whose bodies popped up on the streets of Brooklyn like morning mushrooms in the worst case of police corruption in NYPD history.
These cops used their gold shields, handcuffs, and twirling lights and police sirens to run around the Borough of Churches killing and kidnapping people like fascist assassins in some despotic police state. Two of their victims, Israel Greenwald and Jimmy Hydell, became members of the "disappeared" like those who Jack Lemmon searched for in "Missing."
In 2005, Greenwald's body was exhumed from his grave in the cement floor of Garage #4 of a parking lot at 2232 Nostrand Ave., just blocks from where his shattered family had moved after losing their Lawrence, L.I., house when the family breadwinner vanished. "Thank you, thank you, thank you Lady Justice," Mike Guido said after jury found the Mafia cop guilty on all 70 counts. And so it was that on Easter Sunday following the verdict Mike Guido took his mother to visit his brother's grave. Buds popped, birds sang, sun shone as his mother placed flowers before a smooth marble stone that bore her son Nicky's name. She also put flowers on the grave of Gabe Guido, her husband, who'd died from a broken heart three years after his son was murdered.
"Then, after, when we sat on the Gowanus in traffic, on the way to Staten Island to eat Easter dinner in my sister-in-law's house, I looked to the right," says Mike Guido. "And there was Bush Terminal, where my father worked in an envelope factory to raise me and Nicky."
Then his mother nudged him and pointed to another austere building, and he realized it was the Brooklyn Federal lockup. "That where they are?" she asked.
"Yeah, Ma, that's where Eppolito and Caracappa will be eatin' Easter dinner."
"Good," she said. "Maybe we should send them a few jellybeans."
Mike Guido passes that jailhouse almost every day on the way to work. "I smile every time, knowing they're in that hellhole," he said. "And that they'll be going somewhere even worse to die in little cages like the animals they are."
Last week, Mike Guido decided to pass up the opportunity to read an impact statement at the sentencing of Eppolito and Caracappa, where they got life without possibility of parole.
"To start with, I had to go to work," he says, a concept lost on crooked cops and cheap hoods. "Secondly, they're beneath my contempt. I wouldn't waste my breath. There's a homeless guy who stands on 42nd St. and Seventh Ave. in Manhattan with a sign that says you can tell him off for one dollar. I'd rather give him a buck and tell him what I think of Eppolito and Caracappa than make a special trip to tell them."
Instead, on Father's Day Mike Guido will pick up his mother and make a special trip to Green-Wood Cemetery to pray over the graves of his brother and his father, who loved his sons so much that the loss of his youngest took away his very will to live.
"My brother was murdered 20 years ago," Mike Guido says. "But Eppolito's and Caracappa's life sentences are just about to start. I can feel my old man smiling. So on this Father's Day, both Nicky and my father can finally rest in peace. Together ..."
Thanks to Denis Hamill
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Felix "Milwaukee Phil" Alderisio Index
Felix "Milwaukee Phil" Alderisio was one of the Chicago Outfit's most feared hitmen. He is believed to have been boss from around 1969 to 1971. Originally from New York, he moved to Chicago when he was still a child. As a teenager, he moved to Milwaukee where he fought as a boxer under the name of "Milwaukee Phil". Unpopular as a leader, he was eventually convicted of bank fraud and extortion. While serving time for those convictions, he died at the federal prison in Marion in 1971 at the age of 59.Chicago Syndicate Articles that include mention of Felix "Milwaukee Phil" Alderisio
Wintry Grave May Be Part of Mob's Legacy
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Prosecutors: Alleged Chicago Mob Figure Should Stay Behind Bars
Friends of ours: Frank Calabrese Sr., Nick Calabrese, William Dauber William "Butch" Petrocelli
Federal prosecutors used secretly recorded tapes Monday to bolster their argument that alleged mobster Frank J. Calabrese Sr. should stay behind bars while he awaits trial on murder conspiracy charges.
The government played for U.S. District Judge James B. Zagel tape recordings of conversations between Calabrese and his son, Frank Calabrese Jr., that they say show the elder Calabrese's involvement in several murders.
The younger Calabrese wore a recording device and made about 20 tapes while he was serving time in the same prison as his father and while visiting the prison after his release, FBI agent Michael Maseth testified Monday.
Frank Calabrese Sr. can be heard on the tapes talking about a secret induction ceremony of the Chicago crime organization called the Outfit. The ceremony signified becoming "made," that is, rising in the organization's ranks. Only mob associates who had taken part in a murder could be made, Maseth testified.
On the tape played in court, the elder Calabrese told his son how during the ceremony mob leaders placed holy pictures into the cupped hand of the newly made member and lit the pictures on fire. "And they look at you to see if you'd budge ... while the pictures are burning. And they, and they wait 'til they're getting down to the skin," Calabrese said.
Defense attorney Joseph Lopez argued that Calabrese is unlikely to flee if released on bond and won't obstruct justice by contacting witnesses. Lopez said Calabrese also would be avoided by anyone connected with organized crime. "He's the hottest potato in town," Lopez said. "There is not anyone who is going to go near him."
In a tape recording made April 10, 1999, in a federal prison in Milan, Mich., the federal government alleges Calabrese confirmed his role in the 1980 killings of Richard Ortiz and Arthur Morawski.
Prosecutors allege Ortiz had committed a murder not authorized by the Outfit and was killed in retribution. Morawski was not an intended target, but was killed because he happened to be with Ortiz when the murder was carried out, prosecutors say.
On the tape, Calabrese tells his son he was driving two other men in a car and told them when to approach the victims: "And I said, take your time now. Don't rush. Walk up to that car." He goes on to describe in detail how he pulled his car up next to the victims' car to ensure there could be no witnesses to the murders. "I'm shielding them from the street so nobody could see what they're doing," he says on the tape.
Calabrese also described in the recording the shotguns the two other men allegedly used to kill Ortiz and Morawski. "Tore 'em up bad," he said of the shotguns. "Them'll tear your body up. They're called double-oughts."
Convicted in a federal investigation of loan sharking and other crimes, Calabrese was sentenced to four years and nine months in prison and was due to be released this year before he was indicted on the murder conspiracy charges in April 2005.
Prosecutors have asked that he be denied bond and held in prison pending trial, but defense attorneys have sought Calabrese's release on medical grounds. Last year Calabrese told Zagel he suffers from an array of health problems, including arthritis, nose problems and the loss of 90 percent of his pituitary gland. Zagel said the bond hearing would continue Thursday, and he hoped to make a decision Friday.
The government alleges Calabrese was a member of the South Side/26th Street crew and, with others, murdered 13 people in Chicago and surrounding suburbs between August 1970 and September 1986.
According to prosecutors, Calabrese's victims included reputed mob enforcer William Dauber and reputed mob hit man William "Butch" Petrocelli.
He is among 14 alleged mobsters and mob associates indicted in the federal government's Operation Family Secrets, a long-running investigation of at least 18 mob killings. Each of the men faces a maximum sentence of life in prison.
Calabrese's brother, Nicholas W. Calabrese, also was charged but has been cooperating with prosecutors.
Thanks to Carla K. Johnson
Federal prosecutors used secretly recorded tapes Monday to bolster their argument that alleged mobster Frank J. Calabrese Sr. should stay behind bars while he awaits trial on murder conspiracy charges.
The government played for U.S. District Judge James B. Zagel tape recordings of conversations between Calabrese and his son, Frank Calabrese Jr., that they say show the elder Calabrese's involvement in several murders.
The younger Calabrese wore a recording device and made about 20 tapes while he was serving time in the same prison as his father and while visiting the prison after his release, FBI agent Michael Maseth testified Monday.
Frank Calabrese Sr. can be heard on the tapes talking about a secret induction ceremony of the Chicago crime organization called the Outfit. The ceremony signified becoming "made," that is, rising in the organization's ranks. Only mob associates who had taken part in a murder could be made, Maseth testified.
On the tape played in court, the elder Calabrese told his son how during the ceremony mob leaders placed holy pictures into the cupped hand of the newly made member and lit the pictures on fire. "And they look at you to see if you'd budge ... while the pictures are burning. And they, and they wait 'til they're getting down to the skin," Calabrese said.
Defense attorney Joseph Lopez argued that Calabrese is unlikely to flee if released on bond and won't obstruct justice by contacting witnesses. Lopez said Calabrese also would be avoided by anyone connected with organized crime. "He's the hottest potato in town," Lopez said. "There is not anyone who is going to go near him."
In a tape recording made April 10, 1999, in a federal prison in Milan, Mich., the federal government alleges Calabrese confirmed his role in the 1980 killings of Richard Ortiz and Arthur Morawski.
Prosecutors allege Ortiz had committed a murder not authorized by the Outfit and was killed in retribution. Morawski was not an intended target, but was killed because he happened to be with Ortiz when the murder was carried out, prosecutors say.
On the tape, Calabrese tells his son he was driving two other men in a car and told them when to approach the victims: "And I said, take your time now. Don't rush. Walk up to that car." He goes on to describe in detail how he pulled his car up next to the victims' car to ensure there could be no witnesses to the murders. "I'm shielding them from the street so nobody could see what they're doing," he says on the tape.
Calabrese also described in the recording the shotguns the two other men allegedly used to kill Ortiz and Morawski. "Tore 'em up bad," he said of the shotguns. "Them'll tear your body up. They're called double-oughts."
Convicted in a federal investigation of loan sharking and other crimes, Calabrese was sentenced to four years and nine months in prison and was due to be released this year before he was indicted on the murder conspiracy charges in April 2005.
Prosecutors have asked that he be denied bond and held in prison pending trial, but defense attorneys have sought Calabrese's release on medical grounds. Last year Calabrese told Zagel he suffers from an array of health problems, including arthritis, nose problems and the loss of 90 percent of his pituitary gland. Zagel said the bond hearing would continue Thursday, and he hoped to make a decision Friday.
The government alleges Calabrese was a member of the South Side/26th Street crew and, with others, murdered 13 people in Chicago and surrounding suburbs between August 1970 and September 1986.
According to prosecutors, Calabrese's victims included reputed mob enforcer William Dauber and reputed mob hit man William "Butch" Petrocelli.
He is among 14 alleged mobsters and mob associates indicted in the federal government's Operation Family Secrets, a long-running investigation of at least 18 mob killings. Each of the men faces a maximum sentence of life in prison.
Calabrese's brother, Nicholas W. Calabrese, also was charged but has been cooperating with prosecutors.
Thanks to Carla K. Johnson
Bruce Lost His Bite
Friends of ours: John Gotti, Gambino Crime Family
Friends of mine: Louis Eppolito, Stephen Caracappa
When Mafia cop Louis Eppolito faced the legal battle of a lifetime, his daughter tapped hotshot lawyer Bruce Cutler to defend him because she was confident "he would fight with bulldog ferocity to bring my father home." But in the wake of the former NYPD detective's conviction on racketeering conspiracy charges that included eight gangland murders, Andrea Eppolito believes the big-talking barrister was all bark and no bite in the courtroom.
"It feels very much like a personal betrayal," Eppolito, 29, told the Daily News in an exclusive interview.
"I paid a premium price for what was supposed to be premium legal representation, but I did not get the Bruce Cutler I paid for," she said.
Cutler could not immediately be reached for comment.
Although she was instructed not to discuss specifics of the case by her dad's new lawyer, Joseph Bondy, she said Cutler did not seem interested or committed to winning her father's acquittal. "It was like somebody flipped a switch off," she said.
The dark-eyed beauty said she chose Cutler not because he had represented late Gambino family crime boss John Gotti, but due to his 30-year acquaintance with her dad.
The relationship dated to Cutler's days as a prosecutor and Eppolito's as a city cop. "They used to work out at the same gym. ... I wanted somebody who believed in my father, who would stop at nothing to bring him home. He didn't even present evidence that was available to show my father didn't do it," she said.
The ex-cop's eldest daughter believes the feds relied on tainted testimony from self-serving snitches to prosecute her dad. A federal jury disagreed, convicting her father and fellow ex-cop Stephen Caracappa on April 6. Both face life in prison.
During the trial, the blustery Cutler was reprimanded by the judge for yelling and badgering witnesses, and in one case, the judge cut off his abusive cross-examination.
In a motion seeking to overturn the verdict and get a new trial, Bondy blasted Cutler's flimsy finale in the case. "[Cutler] spent the majority of Mr. Eppolito's closing argument speaking about himself," Bondy wrote.
"Bruce can be very charismatic. I wanted someone who was personally vested in my father's best interests. It was a disappointment. Why? It's a mystery I will never solve," Andrea Eppolito said.
Thanks to Michelle Caruso
Friends of mine: Louis Eppolito, Stephen Caracappa
When Mafia cop Louis Eppolito faced the legal battle of a lifetime, his daughter tapped hotshot lawyer Bruce Cutler to defend him because she was confident "he would fight with bulldog ferocity to bring my father home." But in the wake of the former NYPD detective's conviction on racketeering conspiracy charges that included eight gangland murders, Andrea Eppolito believes the big-talking barrister was all bark and no bite in the courtroom.
"It feels very much like a personal betrayal," Eppolito, 29, told the Daily News in an exclusive interview.
"I paid a premium price for what was supposed to be premium legal representation, but I did not get the Bruce Cutler I paid for," she said.
Cutler could not immediately be reached for comment.
Although she was instructed not to discuss specifics of the case by her dad's new lawyer, Joseph Bondy, she said Cutler did not seem interested or committed to winning her father's acquittal. "It was like somebody flipped a switch off," she said.
The dark-eyed beauty said she chose Cutler not because he had represented late Gambino family crime boss John Gotti, but due to his 30-year acquaintance with her dad.
The relationship dated to Cutler's days as a prosecutor and Eppolito's as a city cop. "They used to work out at the same gym. ... I wanted somebody who believed in my father, who would stop at nothing to bring him home. He didn't even present evidence that was available to show my father didn't do it," she said.
The ex-cop's eldest daughter believes the feds relied on tainted testimony from self-serving snitches to prosecute her dad. A federal jury disagreed, convicting her father and fellow ex-cop Stephen Caracappa on April 6. Both face life in prison.
During the trial, the blustery Cutler was reprimanded by the judge for yelling and badgering witnesses, and in one case, the judge cut off his abusive cross-examination.
In a motion seeking to overturn the verdict and get a new trial, Bondy blasted Cutler's flimsy finale in the case. "[Cutler] spent the majority of Mr. Eppolito's closing argument speaking about himself," Bondy wrote.
"Bruce can be very charismatic. I wanted someone who was personally vested in my father's best interests. It was a disappointment. Why? It's a mystery I will never solve," Andrea Eppolito said.
Thanks to Michelle Caruso
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