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.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
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
Mafia influence at the White House
Friends of ours: Sam Giancana
An article on White House Scandals would not be complete unless it mentioned the Chicago Syndicate.
An article on White House Scandals would not be complete unless it mentioned the Chicago Syndicate.
Lyndon Johnson's longtime protege, Senate aide and secretary Bobby Baker, became embroiled in scandals that were among the most sordid of modern times.
Amassing more than $2 million on a government salary of $16,000 a year, Baker engaged in influence-peddling and kickback schemes that involved favorable government deals for Chicago mob boss Sam Giancana and other crime figures as well as huge military contracts for well-connected Texas businessmen.
Mafia? No. Thugs? Yes.
(AP) Federal authorities say they have broken up a cocaine-trafficking ring that laundered more than $270 million over 15 years in an operation that began in Michigan and branched out across the country. The organization, known on the streets as the Black Mafia Family, had ties to the rap music industry including P. Diddy, and its two leaders have appeared in rap videos, said Robert L. Corso, special agent in charge of the Drug Enforcement Agency in Detroit.
"They were in fact just another group of thugs who brought fear, intimidation and violence to the streets of Detroit," he said.
Local and federal authorities in Michigan, California, Florida, Kentucky, Texas, Georgia, Arkansas and Mississippi arrested 23 people Friday, and two suspects remained at large, authorities said. They face charges that include conspiracy, drug possession with intent to deliver and money laundering, according to a federal grand jury indictment unsealed Friday in Detroit.
U.S. Attorney Stephen J. Murphy said local and federal authorities have been after the ring since 2000 and recently were able to pull several old cases together from many different states.
Authorities said the gang dealt in "multi-kilogram" quantities of cocaine. Since 1999, authorities seized cocaine from the group in Polk County, Texas; Flagstaff, Ariz.; Kansas City, Mo.; Collin County, Texas; Crawford County, Ark.; Florissant, Mo.; St. Louis; and Woodland Hills, Calif.
The gang bought more than $1 million worth of winning lottery tickets at inflated prices "in an effort to launder the cash through legitimate means," Murphy said. They would then use the winnings to purchase homes and vehicles, hiding the fact that the true source of the money was drug sales. Sandi Carter, assistant special agent in the Detroit office of the Internal Revenue Service, said the gang was able to find the winning Daily 4 lottery tickets through contacts in the Detroit area.
According to the indictment, the gang was led by Terry L. Flenory, 35, of Los Angeles, and his brother, Demetrius E. Flenory, 45, of Atlanta.
They started the ring in the Detroit area in the mid-1990s, and it spread to other states as it became more successful, authorities said. Members would use vehicles with hidden compartments to transport the cash from cocaine sales, authorities said.
The gang also bought and leased luxury cars and real estate through false names to conceal the source of their money, the indictment said. Corso alleged that the gang leaders used their ties to rap musicians to find luxury car brokers.
Authorities said they will seek forfeiture of 10 homes, 18 vehicles and $1.2 million that already have been confiscated. The homes are located in the Detroit and Los Angeles areas. Murphy said local and federal authorities had touched the edges of the organization for years but had not tied their work together until recently. Investigators were able to link old cases through telephones used by the Flenory brothers, he said.
"They were in fact just another group of thugs who brought fear, intimidation and violence to the streets of Detroit," he said.
Local and federal authorities in Michigan, California, Florida, Kentucky, Texas, Georgia, Arkansas and Mississippi arrested 23 people Friday, and two suspects remained at large, authorities said. They face charges that include conspiracy, drug possession with intent to deliver and money laundering, according to a federal grand jury indictment unsealed Friday in Detroit.
U.S. Attorney Stephen J. Murphy said local and federal authorities have been after the ring since 2000 and recently were able to pull several old cases together from many different states.
Authorities said the gang dealt in "multi-kilogram" quantities of cocaine. Since 1999, authorities seized cocaine from the group in Polk County, Texas; Flagstaff, Ariz.; Kansas City, Mo.; Collin County, Texas; Crawford County, Ark.; Florissant, Mo.; St. Louis; and Woodland Hills, Calif.
The gang bought more than $1 million worth of winning lottery tickets at inflated prices "in an effort to launder the cash through legitimate means," Murphy said. They would then use the winnings to purchase homes and vehicles, hiding the fact that the true source of the money was drug sales. Sandi Carter, assistant special agent in the Detroit office of the Internal Revenue Service, said the gang was able to find the winning Daily 4 lottery tickets through contacts in the Detroit area.
According to the indictment, the gang was led by Terry L. Flenory, 35, of Los Angeles, and his brother, Demetrius E. Flenory, 45, of Atlanta.
They started the ring in the Detroit area in the mid-1990s, and it spread to other states as it became more successful, authorities said. Members would use vehicles with hidden compartments to transport the cash from cocaine sales, authorities said.
The gang also bought and leased luxury cars and real estate through false names to conceal the source of their money, the indictment said. Corso alleged that the gang leaders used their ties to rap musicians to find luxury car brokers.
Authorities said they will seek forfeiture of 10 homes, 18 vehicles and $1.2 million that already have been confiscated. The homes are located in the Detroit and Los Angeles areas. Murphy said local and federal authorities had touched the edges of the organization for years but had not tied their work together until recently. Investigators were able to link old cases through telephones used by the Flenory brothers, he said.
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