The FBI called him a "psychopath" and "an extremely ruthless, cold-blooded and malicious individual with a violent temper."
He was dubbed "one of the top 'hit men' in Chicago for the past 10 years," back in 1975.
Investigators were warned: "Extreme caution should be exercised ... in view of his propensity for violence." And a confidential source once told the FBI he was "a very mean individual and that he had on one occasion shot a girlfriend in the head."
One nickname he was known by was "The Nut."
But for decades, Francis John Schweihs was best known - and feared - on the streets of Chicago by a nickname that spoke only of his heritage: "The German."
Though he was reputed to be a prolific mob killer, Frank Schweihs never went on trial for a single murder.
He died in 2008 at the age of 76 from complications of cancer. It was just a few months before he would have faced the most serious charges of his life, as part of the landmark Operation Family Secrets case that sent top Chicago Outfit bosses and killers to prison.
Many of Schweihs' secrets went to the grave with him. But his once-secret FBI files - 531 pages in all, obtained by the Chicago Sun-Times - shed new light on a man widely considered to have been the most-feared Chicago mobster ever.
According to one report in the FBI files: "Sources have also indicated that Schweihs is allowed a free reign in Chicago due to his violent nature.
Sources have also indicated that Schweihs is called in by various Chicago crews to do hits."
His FBI file shows authorities were interested in Schweihs for many reputed mob hits in Chicago and elsewhere, including killings in M ilwaukee and Kansas City.
Schweihs' penchant for violence, his hair-trigger temper and his twisted behavior made him stand out even in the Chicago mob. Schweihs started his criminal career as a thief. One time, he defecated in a cash register while he and his young partners in crime robbed a business, sources say.
The late mobster Michael Spilotro warned his teenage daughter in the 1980s: If she ever saw Schweihs around their Oak Park home, call the cops and lock the door.
Schweihs once was caught on a secret government wiretap telling an undercover informant: "I won't see you for a while. I gotta - I got a f------ hit," according to a FBI transcript of the conversation.
Schweihs was also a member of a sophisticated burglary crew in Florida, where he spent much of his time when not in Chicago - and where he once ran into serious trouble with the law.
It was May 1975. He was arrested in Fort Lauderdale after two brothers, who were checking on their auto-body shop late at night, came across Schweihs and another man apparently trying to break into a Wells Fargo bank next door. Schweihs was convicted in that case in 1976. The prosecution victory in the Florida case was short-lived. A federal appeals court overturned Schweihs' conviction.
He wouldn't do prison time until the mid-1990s, when he was sentenced to 10 years behind bars for shaking down pornography bookstore owners for money.
In the mid-1970s, Schweihs was inves tigated for more than a year for allegedly extorting two restaurant-quality Vulcan ranges out of a guy who owed him money. Schweihs used them at his own Old Town restaurant, the Meat Block, according to the FBI files.
The Internal Revenue Service once had Richard Johnson - a legendary undercover agent - strike up a business relationship with Schweihs. It was a remarkable feat because Johnson was black, and Schweihs, beside being paranoid about law enforcement, was a virulent racist. Schweihs would brag about how he could sniff out FBI agents.
In an interview with the Chicago Sun-Times in 2006, Johnson recalled how he convinced Schweihs that he was interested in buying a restaurant property from him that Schweihs had converted into an Italian bicycle shop when he had problems with his liquor license.
Another time, Johnson said, Schweihs wanted to show him how strong a Plexiglas screen in the building's vestibule was. So Schweihs picked up a baseball bat and hammered at it in a frenzy for a minute. "I'm looking at him and ducking at the same time," Johnson said. "It was like he was in another world."
Schweihs, oddly, given his own reputation for violence, told Johnson that Italians could learn something from black people, saying, "You guys march and raise hell and shoot each other." But Johnson's undercover investigation had to be cut short. Schweihs began threatening the life of then-Cook County Board President George Dunne, who Schweihs mistakenly believed was behind his liquor-license problems. Dunne was warned of the threat, and the investigation ended.
Thanks to Steve Warmbir
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Monday, July 05, 2010
Agatha Christie 4:50 From Paddington
Pack your bags . . . for murder. Join Agatha Christie's famed sleuth, Miss Marple, in this classic "whodunit". Uncover clues, solve perplexing puzzles and unmask the murderer before it's too late. All aboard!
Play Agatha Christie 4:50 From Paddington Free!
Sunday, July 04, 2010
Legendary Organized Crime Figure Frank Colacurcio Sr. Dies
Frank Colacurcio Sr., the strip-club magnate whose organized-crime exploits covered more than half a century and helped define Seattle's history of police corruption and reform, died Friday. He was 93.
Mr. Colacurcio had been in declining health for some time, suffering from congestive heart failure. His death was confirmed by his attorney, Irwin Schwartz. Mr. Colacurcio died at University of Washington Medical Center, said spokeswoman Leila Gray.
In keeping with his life story, Mr. Colacurcio was under indictment at the time of his death, facing allegations of racketeering and promoting prostitution.
"It is the end of an era, hopefully one that won't be repeated," former Seattle U.S. Attorney Jeff Sullivan said Friday.
Mr. Colacurcio died only a week after the final dismantling of his strip-club operations by federal prosecutors, 67 years after he was first sent to prison for what was then called carnal knowledge with a teenage girl.
As Seattle's longest-running crime figure, Mr. Colacurcio often was portrayed by law-enforcement officials and the news media as one of Seattle's most notorious racketeering figures.
The reputation stemmed from convictions for tax evasion and racketeering that repeatedly sent him to prison. Adding to the lore were murky tales — involving corrupt cops and his cat-and-mouse dealings with law-enforcement officials — that no one could explain, except perhaps Mr. Colacurcio.
Despite his notoriety, Mr. Colacurcio wasn't flashy. He wore golf shirts, played cards and lived in a modest home in the Sheridan Beach neighborhood of Lake Forest Park at the north end of Lake Washington. His one indulgence was a 38-foot boat used for fishing in Alaska.
He benefited in the 1950s and 1960s when Seattle had rougher edges and police turned their eyes from vice and criminal activity in exchange for payoffs.
Eventually, he became a top target of federal and local law-enforcement officials.
For years, the feds and other investigators picked through his trash, eavesdropped on his conversations and recruited snitches. They finally got him in the 1970s, for racketeering and failing to pay taxes on money skimmed from his businesses. But their long-held suspicion that Mr. Colacurcio was involved in the execution-style slayings of several people who had crossed him never resulted in charges. In an interview a few years ago, Mr. Colacurcio dismissed the notion that he was involved in old killings or illegal activities. "They have been investigating me since the time I was born," he said.
Once considered Seattle's own connection to the Mafia, he more likely headed a homegrown organized-crime outfit, law-enforcement officials concluded.
"Mafia malarkey," he once complained, saying local investigators needed someone they could label as their own mob figure.
Yet he and his associates also seemed to enjoy the image. Five years ago, while he awaited a court hearing, a cellphone belonging to an investigator on his defense team rang. The ringtone: the theme song for the movie "The Godfather."
For some detectives, investigating Mr. Colacurcio was an obsession. They built dossiers with flow charts and pictures of his known associates. Once, they even rented a room next to his old SeaTac office to eavesdrop through an electrical outlet.
Mr. Colacurcio outlasted some investigators, who moved to other jobs or retired. One federal prosecutor who brought charges against him later became his defense attorney.
"I'll never be 'retired' retired," Mr. Colacurcio said in 1995. "Not until I'm in the grave."
He ran his operations from Talents West, a hiring agency and business office in a small building on Lake City Way. Its walls displayed photographs of scantily dressed women and a giant framed photo of Mr. Colacurcio leaving a courthouse.
Mr. Colacurcio was born in Seattle to immigrant parents on June 18, 1917. He quit school at age 15 to begin farming and started a produce-hauling business.
Beginning in the 1950s, he used thugs and threats to control Seattle's jukebox, pinball and cigarette-vending-machine business, competitors alleged. Those businesses historically had attracted organized crime because of their easily skimmed cash.
He also sought to expand into Portland, drawing the attention of a U.S. Senate committee investigating organized crime.
Under questioning by Robert F. Kennedy, chief counsel for the committee, James "Big Jim" Elkins, a Portland crime figure, told the committee that Mr. Colacurcio asked for Elkins' help in opening prostitution houses there.
"He wanted me to arrange so that he could take over three or four houses," Elkins testified. "I told him if he wanted the houses to go buy them."
Elkins described Mr. Colacurcio as a fellow racketeer and a "boy that had various things operating in Seattle."
In the 1960s, Mr. Colacurcio held an interest in several bars, restaurants and nightclubs in Seattle. He ran a beer garden at the Seattle World's Fair in 1962 and introduced go-go dancing to Seattle at the Firelite Room in 1965.
For years, the well-entrenched tolerance policy in Seattle and King County kept the police from bothering him until the payoff system crumbled, brought down by investigative reporters, Christopher T. Bayley, a reform-minded King County prosecutor, and Stan Pitkin, a hard-charging U.S. attorney in Seattle.
In a 1971 trial, Mr. Colacurcio was convicted of racketeering for bringing illegal bingo cards into the state. Federal prosecutors exposed a bribery scheme in which police were paid to ignore illegal gambling activities at area taverns. A nightclub owner testified that he paid Colacurcio $3,000 a month for police protection.
Around the same time, State Patrol investigators reported that Mr. Colacurcio had met in Yakima with Salvatore "Bill" Bonanno, the son of legendary New York Mafia boss Joseph "Joe Bananas" Bonanno, to discuss a business relationship. Mr. Colacurcio famously responded to a reporter that he and his family had gone to Yakima to pick hot peppers, "but I didn't pick no bananas."
Although he served prison stints for the 1971 conviction and a 1981 tax-fraud conviction, Mr. Colacurcio opened topless taverns and strip clubs — another cash business that allowed profit-skimming — throughout the Seattle area and beyond, eventually operating in at least 10 Western states.
Law-enforcement officials banded together in 1984, driving him out of many states.
For a period, Mr. Colacurcio almost faded into local lore. After a 1991 guilty plea to tax fraud and his 36-year-year marriage to Jackie Colacurcio ended in divorce about the same time, he and his son, Frank Colacurcio Jr., concentrated on running a smaller number of nude-dancing clubs.
The clubs, which years earlier had stopped selling alcohol to avoid state liquor inspectors, made their money from cover charges, high-priced soft drinks and charging a hefty per diem to the dancers. But Mr. Colacurcio and his son landed on the front page of newspapers in 2003 when the "Strippergate" scandal jolted Seattle City Hall.
For years, the Colacurcios had tried to expand parking at Rick's, a Lake City Way strip club, but were repeatedly rejected. When the parking plan came before the council again in 2003, Colacurcio associates contributed thousands of dollars to three City Council members, who helped form a majority that approved the plan.
Strippergate also cast a spotlight on the long friendship between Mr. Colacurcio and former Washington Gov. Albert Rosellini. Rosellini, who served as governor from 1957 to 1965 and is now 100 years old, played a role in pushing for the parking-lot rezone.
Their ties had gone back for years, dogging Rosellini during his political career, although there was never proof of illegal dealings.
In the Strippergate case, prosecutors charged Mr. Colacurcio, his son and two others with skirting donation limits by secretly reimbursing contributors. In 2008, Mr. Colacurcio, his son and an associate pleaded guilty to criminal charges and paid fines. The fourth defendant was dismissed from the case. But even before that case was resolved, the Strippergate case prompted FBI and local law-enforcement officials to launch a broader investigation, looking for evidence of prostitution at Colacurcio clubs.
Investigators also reopened old homicide cases, trying to link Mr. Colacurcio or his associates to the slayings of five people in the 1970s and 1980s: a rival strip-club operator and his fiancée, a bar owner in Central Washington, a mechanic in a murder-for-hire scheme, and a police informant.
Neither Mr. Colacurcio nor his associates were tied to those cases, and involvement in the Central Washington case has been ruled out.
The four-year investigation culminated with racketeering charges brought against Mr. Colacurcio, his son and others last year, alleging they allowed rampant prostitution at Rick's and three other clubs in King, Pierce and Snohomish counties that generated million of dollars in business.
Last week, Frank Colacurcio Jr., 48, pleaded guilty to a racketeering conspiracy charge that will cost him $1.3 million and likely land him in prison for a year and a day. Four close associates of his father earlier pleaded guilty to prostitution- and racketeering-related charges.
As part of plea deals, the Colacurcios' four strip clubs have been shuttered, and the government seized the buildings and other property valued at $4.5 million. The final piece of property, Talents West, was forfeited by Colacurcio Jr. under his plea.
In a final interview a year ago, while sitting in a leather chair, a blanket draped over his lap, Mr. Colacurcio was asked what he wanted his legacy to be. He paused, mulled the question and replied, "I think my background speaks for itself."
Thanks to Steve Miletich
Mr. Colacurcio had been in declining health for some time, suffering from congestive heart failure. His death was confirmed by his attorney, Irwin Schwartz. Mr. Colacurcio died at University of Washington Medical Center, said spokeswoman Leila Gray.
In keeping with his life story, Mr. Colacurcio was under indictment at the time of his death, facing allegations of racketeering and promoting prostitution.
"It is the end of an era, hopefully one that won't be repeated," former Seattle U.S. Attorney Jeff Sullivan said Friday.
Mr. Colacurcio died only a week after the final dismantling of his strip-club operations by federal prosecutors, 67 years after he was first sent to prison for what was then called carnal knowledge with a teenage girl.
As Seattle's longest-running crime figure, Mr. Colacurcio often was portrayed by law-enforcement officials and the news media as one of Seattle's most notorious racketeering figures.
The reputation stemmed from convictions for tax evasion and racketeering that repeatedly sent him to prison. Adding to the lore were murky tales — involving corrupt cops and his cat-and-mouse dealings with law-enforcement officials — that no one could explain, except perhaps Mr. Colacurcio.
Despite his notoriety, Mr. Colacurcio wasn't flashy. He wore golf shirts, played cards and lived in a modest home in the Sheridan Beach neighborhood of Lake Forest Park at the north end of Lake Washington. His one indulgence was a 38-foot boat used for fishing in Alaska.
He benefited in the 1950s and 1960s when Seattle had rougher edges and police turned their eyes from vice and criminal activity in exchange for payoffs.
Eventually, he became a top target of federal and local law-enforcement officials.
For years, the feds and other investigators picked through his trash, eavesdropped on his conversations and recruited snitches. They finally got him in the 1970s, for racketeering and failing to pay taxes on money skimmed from his businesses. But their long-held suspicion that Mr. Colacurcio was involved in the execution-style slayings of several people who had crossed him never resulted in charges. In an interview a few years ago, Mr. Colacurcio dismissed the notion that he was involved in old killings or illegal activities. "They have been investigating me since the time I was born," he said.
Once considered Seattle's own connection to the Mafia, he more likely headed a homegrown organized-crime outfit, law-enforcement officials concluded.
"Mafia malarkey," he once complained, saying local investigators needed someone they could label as their own mob figure.
Yet he and his associates also seemed to enjoy the image. Five years ago, while he awaited a court hearing, a cellphone belonging to an investigator on his defense team rang. The ringtone: the theme song for the movie "The Godfather."
For some detectives, investigating Mr. Colacurcio was an obsession. They built dossiers with flow charts and pictures of his known associates. Once, they even rented a room next to his old SeaTac office to eavesdrop through an electrical outlet.
Mr. Colacurcio outlasted some investigators, who moved to other jobs or retired. One federal prosecutor who brought charges against him later became his defense attorney.
"I'll never be 'retired' retired," Mr. Colacurcio said in 1995. "Not until I'm in the grave."
He ran his operations from Talents West, a hiring agency and business office in a small building on Lake City Way. Its walls displayed photographs of scantily dressed women and a giant framed photo of Mr. Colacurcio leaving a courthouse.
Mr. Colacurcio was born in Seattle to immigrant parents on June 18, 1917. He quit school at age 15 to begin farming and started a produce-hauling business.
Beginning in the 1950s, he used thugs and threats to control Seattle's jukebox, pinball and cigarette-vending-machine business, competitors alleged. Those businesses historically had attracted organized crime because of their easily skimmed cash.
He also sought to expand into Portland, drawing the attention of a U.S. Senate committee investigating organized crime.
Under questioning by Robert F. Kennedy, chief counsel for the committee, James "Big Jim" Elkins, a Portland crime figure, told the committee that Mr. Colacurcio asked for Elkins' help in opening prostitution houses there.
"He wanted me to arrange so that he could take over three or four houses," Elkins testified. "I told him if he wanted the houses to go buy them."
Elkins described Mr. Colacurcio as a fellow racketeer and a "boy that had various things operating in Seattle."
In the 1960s, Mr. Colacurcio held an interest in several bars, restaurants and nightclubs in Seattle. He ran a beer garden at the Seattle World's Fair in 1962 and introduced go-go dancing to Seattle at the Firelite Room in 1965.
For years, the well-entrenched tolerance policy in Seattle and King County kept the police from bothering him until the payoff system crumbled, brought down by investigative reporters, Christopher T. Bayley, a reform-minded King County prosecutor, and Stan Pitkin, a hard-charging U.S. attorney in Seattle.
In a 1971 trial, Mr. Colacurcio was convicted of racketeering for bringing illegal bingo cards into the state. Federal prosecutors exposed a bribery scheme in which police were paid to ignore illegal gambling activities at area taverns. A nightclub owner testified that he paid Colacurcio $3,000 a month for police protection.
Around the same time, State Patrol investigators reported that Mr. Colacurcio had met in Yakima with Salvatore "Bill" Bonanno, the son of legendary New York Mafia boss Joseph "Joe Bananas" Bonanno, to discuss a business relationship. Mr. Colacurcio famously responded to a reporter that he and his family had gone to Yakima to pick hot peppers, "but I didn't pick no bananas."
Although he served prison stints for the 1971 conviction and a 1981 tax-fraud conviction, Mr. Colacurcio opened topless taverns and strip clubs — another cash business that allowed profit-skimming — throughout the Seattle area and beyond, eventually operating in at least 10 Western states.
Law-enforcement officials banded together in 1984, driving him out of many states.
For a period, Mr. Colacurcio almost faded into local lore. After a 1991 guilty plea to tax fraud and his 36-year-year marriage to Jackie Colacurcio ended in divorce about the same time, he and his son, Frank Colacurcio Jr., concentrated on running a smaller number of nude-dancing clubs.
The clubs, which years earlier had stopped selling alcohol to avoid state liquor inspectors, made their money from cover charges, high-priced soft drinks and charging a hefty per diem to the dancers. But Mr. Colacurcio and his son landed on the front page of newspapers in 2003 when the "Strippergate" scandal jolted Seattle City Hall.
For years, the Colacurcios had tried to expand parking at Rick's, a Lake City Way strip club, but were repeatedly rejected. When the parking plan came before the council again in 2003, Colacurcio associates contributed thousands of dollars to three City Council members, who helped form a majority that approved the plan.
Strippergate also cast a spotlight on the long friendship between Mr. Colacurcio and former Washington Gov. Albert Rosellini. Rosellini, who served as governor from 1957 to 1965 and is now 100 years old, played a role in pushing for the parking-lot rezone.
Their ties had gone back for years, dogging Rosellini during his political career, although there was never proof of illegal dealings.
In the Strippergate case, prosecutors charged Mr. Colacurcio, his son and two others with skirting donation limits by secretly reimbursing contributors. In 2008, Mr. Colacurcio, his son and an associate pleaded guilty to criminal charges and paid fines. The fourth defendant was dismissed from the case. But even before that case was resolved, the Strippergate case prompted FBI and local law-enforcement officials to launch a broader investigation, looking for evidence of prostitution at Colacurcio clubs.
Investigators also reopened old homicide cases, trying to link Mr. Colacurcio or his associates to the slayings of five people in the 1970s and 1980s: a rival strip-club operator and his fiancée, a bar owner in Central Washington, a mechanic in a murder-for-hire scheme, and a police informant.
Neither Mr. Colacurcio nor his associates were tied to those cases, and involvement in the Central Washington case has been ruled out.
The four-year investigation culminated with racketeering charges brought against Mr. Colacurcio, his son and others last year, alleging they allowed rampant prostitution at Rick's and three other clubs in King, Pierce and Snohomish counties that generated million of dollars in business.
Last week, Frank Colacurcio Jr., 48, pleaded guilty to a racketeering conspiracy charge that will cost him $1.3 million and likely land him in prison for a year and a day. Four close associates of his father earlier pleaded guilty to prostitution- and racketeering-related charges.
As part of plea deals, the Colacurcios' four strip clubs have been shuttered, and the government seized the buildings and other property valued at $4.5 million. The final piece of property, Talents West, was forfeited by Colacurcio Jr. under his plea.
In a final interview a year ago, while sitting in a leather chair, a blanket draped over his lap, Mr. Colacurcio was asked what he wanted his legacy to be. He paused, mulled the question and replied, "I think my background speaks for itself."
Thanks to Steve Miletich
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Former Chicago Police Commander Convicted of Perjury, Obstruction of Justice Related to Torture of Suspects
The Justice Department announced that a federal jury in Chicago convicted former Chicago Police Department (CPD) Commander Jon Burge, 60, of Apollo Beach, Fla., on perjury and obstruction charges related to his denials that he participated in the torture of suspects in police custody decades ago. The jury found that Burge lied and impeded court proceedings in November 2003 when he provided false statements in a civil lawsuit that alleged that he and others tortured and abused people in their custody.
During the trial, several victims testified that they had been tortured by Burge and other officers who worked for him in area two of the CPD. Various witnesses testified that the officers administered electric shocks to their genitals, suffocated them with typewriter covers, threatened them with loaded guns and burned them on radiators. The jury found that Burge had lied under oath when he claimed that he did not participate in any of these acts of torture, and that he was unaware of any other officers having done so.
“For decades, Jon Burge’s horrific actions ran contrary to all that our justice system stands for. Burge betrayed the public trust, first by abusing suspects in his custody, and then by lying under oath to cover up what he and other officers had done. The jury’s verdict allows those harmed by his actions to finally start the healing process,” said Thomas E. Perez, Assistant Attorney General for the Civil Rights Division. “The Civil Rights Division will aggressively prosecute any officer who violates the Constitution.”
“At long last, a measure of justice was delivered today when a jury returned a verdict of guilty against Jon Burge on obstruction of justice and perjury. The verdict necessarily found that torture and abuse occurred in police districts in the city of Chicago in the 1980s. It’s disgraceful that torture happened and sad that it took so long to bring Burge to justice, and the only thing that would have been worse is if this measure of justice never happened,” said Patrick J. Fitzgerald, U.S. Attorney for the Northern District of Illinois.
Burge faces a maximum penalty of 20 years in prison on each count of obstruction of justice and five years in prison for perjury.
This case was investigated by the FBI and prosecuted by Assistant U.S. Attorneys David Weisman and April Perry and Civil Rights Division Trial Attorney Betsy Biffl.
During the trial, several victims testified that they had been tortured by Burge and other officers who worked for him in area two of the CPD. Various witnesses testified that the officers administered electric shocks to their genitals, suffocated them with typewriter covers, threatened them with loaded guns and burned them on radiators. The jury found that Burge had lied under oath when he claimed that he did not participate in any of these acts of torture, and that he was unaware of any other officers having done so.
“For decades, Jon Burge’s horrific actions ran contrary to all that our justice system stands for. Burge betrayed the public trust, first by abusing suspects in his custody, and then by lying under oath to cover up what he and other officers had done. The jury’s verdict allows those harmed by his actions to finally start the healing process,” said Thomas E. Perez, Assistant Attorney General for the Civil Rights Division. “The Civil Rights Division will aggressively prosecute any officer who violates the Constitution.”
“At long last, a measure of justice was delivered today when a jury returned a verdict of guilty against Jon Burge on obstruction of justice and perjury. The verdict necessarily found that torture and abuse occurred in police districts in the city of Chicago in the 1980s. It’s disgraceful that torture happened and sad that it took so long to bring Burge to justice, and the only thing that would have been worse is if this measure of justice never happened,” said Patrick J. Fitzgerald, U.S. Attorney for the Northern District of Illinois.
Burge faces a maximum penalty of 20 years in prison on each count of obstruction of justice and five years in prison for perjury.
This case was investigated by the FBI and prosecuted by Assistant U.S. Attorneys David Weisman and April Perry and Civil Rights Division Trial Attorney Betsy Biffl.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
New Jersey Division of Gaming Enforcement will not appeal Casino License to a construction firm that it believes has ties to Organized Crime
Bringing a contentious case to a close, the New Jersey Division of Gaming Enforcement will not appeal the award of a casino license to a construction firm that the agency believes has ties to organized crime.
The New Jersey Casino Control Commission, over vehement objections from the DGE, approved a license in May for Pleasantville-based Bayshore Rebar Inc. and its owners, Joseph N. Merlino and his mother, Phyllis Merlino.
The DGE, which had discussed the possibility of an appeal, had 45 days in which to challenge the commission's ruling in state court. However, the division allowed the appeal deadline to lapse. DGE spokesman Paul Loriquet said Friday that the agency would not comment further about the case.
The licensing dispute pitted two government agencies against each other, with both sides accusing the other of misconduct as the case unfolded. The commission serves as the chief regulatory body for Atlantic City's $3.9 billion casino industry, while the DGE acts as an investigative agency.
John M. Donnelly, an Atlantic City attorney representing the Merlinos, said he is relieved the grueling regulatory battle has finally come to an end. "It's been an expensive ordeal," Donnelly said. "We don't need any more litigation."
During Bayshore's licensing hearing, DGE attorneys alleged that the Merlinos were linked to organized crime through their relatives. Joseph N. Merlino's cousin is jailed Philadelphia mob boss Joseph S. "Skinny Joey" Merlino. The late Lawrence "Yogi" Merlino, a high-ranking mobster, was Joseph N. Merlino's father and the ex-husband of Phyllis Merlino.
In a unanimous vote May 5, the five-member Casino Control Commission concluded the Merlinos were not connected to organized crime. The license allows the Merlinos and Bayshore to do business with Atlantic City's casinos.
The ruling reversed 21 years of state policy. The Merlinos were denied a license by the commission in 1989 and again in 1997 based on the belief that they had "inimical associations" with organized crime.
This time around, the commission ruled the Merlinos were free of any mob influence. Joseph N. Merlino and his mother insisted they had long ago severed all ties to any family members involved in organized crime.
Thanks to Donald Wittkowski
The New Jersey Casino Control Commission, over vehement objections from the DGE, approved a license in May for Pleasantville-based Bayshore Rebar Inc. and its owners, Joseph N. Merlino and his mother, Phyllis Merlino.
The DGE, which had discussed the possibility of an appeal, had 45 days in which to challenge the commission's ruling in state court. However, the division allowed the appeal deadline to lapse. DGE spokesman Paul Loriquet said Friday that the agency would not comment further about the case.
The licensing dispute pitted two government agencies against each other, with both sides accusing the other of misconduct as the case unfolded. The commission serves as the chief regulatory body for Atlantic City's $3.9 billion casino industry, while the DGE acts as an investigative agency.
John M. Donnelly, an Atlantic City attorney representing the Merlinos, said he is relieved the grueling regulatory battle has finally come to an end. "It's been an expensive ordeal," Donnelly said. "We don't need any more litigation."
During Bayshore's licensing hearing, DGE attorneys alleged that the Merlinos were linked to organized crime through their relatives. Joseph N. Merlino's cousin is jailed Philadelphia mob boss Joseph S. "Skinny Joey" Merlino. The late Lawrence "Yogi" Merlino, a high-ranking mobster, was Joseph N. Merlino's father and the ex-husband of Phyllis Merlino.
In a unanimous vote May 5, the five-member Casino Control Commission concluded the Merlinos were not connected to organized crime. The license allows the Merlinos and Bayshore to do business with Atlantic City's casinos.
The ruling reversed 21 years of state policy. The Merlinos were denied a license by the commission in 1989 and again in 1997 based on the belief that they had "inimical associations" with organized crime.
This time around, the commission ruled the Merlinos were free of any mob influence. Joseph N. Merlino and his mother insisted they had long ago severed all ties to any family members involved in organized crime.
Thanks to Donald Wittkowski
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