If the 90 percent confession had erased GraBois’s doubts about Stan Patz, it had done the same for Patz’s animosity toward the prosecutor. As much as Stan had felt bulldozed by GraBois in the past, now he saw real results. This wasn’t an investigator heading off to Europe with a nebulous “Well, we’re looking…” This was a suspect with a name, whom Stan could actually picture in his head. A man with a real connection to the family. Most importantly he was a man in custody, GraBois laser-focused on building a case against him.
The prosecutor had Stan bring Julie back the following week and asked both of them a series of questions—about their recollections of Ramos, his girlfriend Sandy Harmon, and her son Bennett. Had Bennett played with Etan? Had he been up in the loft? Did Etan tell either Bennett or his mother about his plans to walk to school alone? Did Etan ever meet Ramos before? But Stan and Julie had been asked these questions before, and could offer little about the woman Stan didn’t think he’d even met and Julie knew only to feel sorry for. Sandy was a quiet woman; she was neat and unobtrusive. She didn’t really register in a downtown artists’ colony filled with flamboyant characters who deliberately dressed and acted to be noticed. Her son was a sweet kid, a few years younger than Etan, and the two boys had had little to do with each other.
GraBois had more luck with Bennett Harmon himself the second time they met in November. This time GraBois was able to coax out buried memories of those sleepovers at Ramos’s apartment, a sixth-floor walk-up dump in the East Village section nicknamed Alphabet City, so called because the avenues there were lettered, not numbered. At that time Alphabet City was known as a top New York drug supermarket, and Ramos’s building was a haven for junkies and hoodlums, who hung out in the cramped hallways, terrorizing the tenants. Ramos would bring Bennett there after a movie in Times Square or a trip to the Empire State Building. Before bed, Bennett revealed, on many nights the older man would tell him it was time for a bath in the ancient claw-footed tub that took up half the kitchen. Then they would play an “adult” game Ramos had agreed to teach Bennett once the boy promised not to tell his mother. A mortified Bennett told GraBois how Ramos would undress too, and join him. The man would sit Bennett on top of him, fondle him, and then fellate the boy on the studio couch afterwards.
Bennett said he couldn’t recall Ramos penetrating him, but the investigators weren’t so sure. A four-year-old might not even understand that it was happening, let alone be able to talk about it nine years later. GraBois was a grown man, a hardened prosecutor, and it made him sick to his stomach just to ask the questions. “It’s not your fault,” he said over and over to reassure Bennett. “You were a little boy, and he took advantage of you. What he did was wrong, and you are the victim.”
By this time, after four months in federal custody, Ramos had already returned to his Pennsylvania cell, taking his yarmulke and his newfound Jewish religion with him. GraBois knew he could bring the inmate back to New York at any time, and while at SCI Rockview, Ramos’s movements were being closely monitored. But GraBois was well aware of his deadline: Ramos’s first possible release date was less than a year off, and once his suspect was freed from the system, he could easily slip away.
So GraBois was working on a parallel track from the Patz investigation. Since his first look at Ramos’s rap sheet, he’d been intrigued by that entry on the last page—the Warren County case that had been “nolle prossed” by the local district attorney the year before. Nolle prosequi, Latin for “we shall no longer prosecute,” meant not that the case was irrevocably dismissed by the judge, only that it would no longer be pursued by the prosecutor. This left a door open. A “nolle prossed” case was rarely resurrected, but GraBois just needed to get his proverbial foot in. In October 1988, GraBois called the Warren County DA.
Warren County’s district attorney, Rick Hernan, seemed surprised to get a call from a New York federal prosecutor about a case he’d given little thought to in over a year. He explained the facts of the case to GraBois and the circumstances surrounding the suppressed confession. He’d gone as far as an appeal to the State Superior Court. Child molestations were tough, he said, and even if the victim was prepared to testify, without the confession they just didn’t have enough.
GraBois disagreed, and Hernan’s attitude rankled.
“I don’t think you need a confession,” GraBois said. “You’ve got this kid’s testimony. Maybe you can’t use Ramos’s confession in court, but one thing it does is tell you for sure that he’s guilty as hell. So you know for a fact the kid’s telling the truth.”
“I’m not saying I won’t do it,” Hernan countered. “I’m just telling you what we’re up against. If you want to go find the kid, go right ahead. We haven’t been able to in a long time.”
GraBois hung up the phone in disgust. This DA did not appear at all interested in prosecuting the case. He found a more kindred spirit when he called Dan Portzer. The Pennsylvania state trooper had never been satisfied with how the Warren case had ended. As far as Portzer was concerned, Ramos should have sat in the electric chair for what he’d done to young Joey Taylor. Instead he’d gotten clean away with it.
GraBois told Portzer he needed his help. “I want to keep this piece of garbage off the street as long as I can. My interest is the possible murder of a six-year-old in New York,” and then he filled Portzer in.
“I’m with you,” Portzer assured GraBois. “Whatever you need, just ask.” Portzer sent GraBois copies of his files and gave him a brief primer on the Rainbow Family of the Living Light. Sounds interesting, GraBois thought, maybe even entertaining. He saw lots of con artists and pedophiles in his typical cases—a bunch of flower children might be a refreshing change. He turned to Jim Nauwens, an investigator in the U.S. Attorney’s Office.
“Can you find me some Rainbows?” he asked.
On the day that GraBois sat with Bennett Harmon and heard what Jose Ramos had done to him, Jim Nauwens drove up the New York State Thruway to Woodstock, New York, looking for Rainbows. Had he been aware of them, Nauwens could have taken the subway twenty blocks north to the East Village, where the Rainbow Family flourished, and even had their own P.O. box at the local post office, but up to this point, Rainbows were an unknown entity to the U.S. Attorney’s Office of New York’s Southern District. All Nauwens had to work with was the name “Barry Adams” and a hefty briefing book the U.S. Forest Service had put together on how to prepare for a Rainbow Gathering. Nauwens thought the extensive backgrounder resembled no less than a defense for the invasion of Normandy, but it offered few clues to help find Rainbows in their off time. If Nauwens was hunting hippies, Woodstock was as good a place as any to start.
“I’m looking for some help,” he’d say, working his way from head shop to hair salon. Everyone listened politely, if blankly, to the straitlaced blond Fed. “Could you get me to Barry Adams? We’re on the same side with this one, and I think he would want to help.” After a few days of spreading his card and affable demeanor around town, he came back to New York City feeling defeated. Two days later the phone rang.
“I hear you want to talk to me,” said Barry Adams, calling from his home in Montana. “When the Feds come looking for me, I don’t usually want to be found,” he told Nauwens. But he listened as the investigator detailed his interest in Jose Ramos and what the Rainbows could say about him. Adams agreed to talk to GraBois, and told Nauwens that the Taylor family was pretty disenchanted with the whole judicial process.
“These folks have been waiting more than two years,” Adams said when he had the prosecutor on the line. “They feel like justice is for other people, not poor folk who don’t have a nice home with a white picket fence, near Main Street in Warren, Pennsylvania. That DA threw the case away.”
“I’m not the DA,” GraBois countered. “Let’s meet and talk, and you can make your own judgment. If you don’t want to cooperate with me, then you leave.” Adams agreed to meet with the prosecutor. He’d fly into New York for a parley, he said, a feeling
-out process.
“But I’m not coming alone.” He was adamant. So GraBois arranged to bring in John Buffalo from San Diego, and added in a New York contingent as well.
The Rainbows met an hour early in front of One St. Andrew’s Plaza: Joanee Freedom and Garrick Beck, the New Yorkers; Barry Adams and John Buffalo; Dave Massey, up from D.C.; and another Rainbow who called himself “Peace Ray,” a graduate student at Drexel University.
By far, Adams was the standout, in his cowboy hat, leather chaps, and plunker, but as a group they drew stares from the stream of uniforms and pinstriped suits that usually crossed the square. The Rainbows held an abbreviated council, and agreed to listen without judgment, say little, and come to consensus later. They were walking into a possible ambush on the basis of little more than a phone conversation between Barry Adams and GraBois.
The group filed into the modern U.S. Attorney’s Office building, feeling as far away as possible from the familiarity of a smoky drumming circle.
“Welcome to the ‘House that Giuliani Built,’ ” joked Joanee, to break the tension.
The security guard picked up the phone and dialed Jim Nauwens’s extension. He’d been around a long time, had seen some real fringe types come through over the years. But he’d never seen anything like this.
“Jim,” the guard said, a note of incredulity in his voice. “There are a bunch of people down here to see you. Are you sure you want to see them?” Nauwens went down to collect the new arrivals. He waited while they checked a few knives, vouched for the ones who didn’t possess ID, and ignored the “Who the fuck is that?” from agents walking by.
Up in his office, Nauwens stashed the group in his office until he could move them into a vacant conference room. They wandered around the investigator’s cramped quarters, filled with boxes of paperwork; cases in progress. Joanee peered at the crime scene photos and diagrams from different cases, blown up and taped to the walls or mounted on easels. She wondered how the investigators looked at this all day and then went home to their families at night. She spied one posterboard mounted with photos of the small blond boy she immediately recognized as Etan Patz. It featured two duplicate photos side by side, one untouched, the other computer-enhanced to show age progression. “That face looks familiar,” she thought, and called over the others to look, before they all adjourned to wait in a bigger room nearby.
When GraBois walked through the door, he introduced himself with a welcoming smile. He was careful to work the crowd, passing out his business card, with a handshake and direct look for each one. Now he understood why for the last twenty minutes staffers had been sticking their heads in his office to playfully inquire about the motley crew gathered in their conference room. GraBois took the ribbing good-naturedly. He knew that those passing the open door saw little more than a group of aging hippies and hoodlum bikers, but he saw them as potential colleagues.
“I asked you to come because I need your help,” GraBois started. “I’m trying to stop the worst kind of scum. He’s hurt a lot of kids, and I believe he molested and murdered a six-year-old in New York. I’ve now come to learn he molested at least two boys among your people. Who knows how many others he’s hurt?”
“Well, we’re glad you brought us in,” drawled Adams. He leaned back, took off his hat, and looked to be settling in. “A free trip to New York City is always a treat. But at the same time, you got to understand it’s a rare occasion when we visit the Feds on a voluntary basis. Usually when a federal officer goes to shake my hand, he’s putting the cuffs on.” Barry Adams loved a good audience, and he had a lot to say.
“Our people are considered outlaws by law enforcement in general, and the Feds in particular,” he continued, then spoke at length about the Rainbows’ history with federal authorities, their legal battles around Gatherings on federal land, and their hassles with the Forest Service. When he was finished, he pulled out a sheaf of paperwork and handed it to GraBois.
“We’ve been taking advantage of our freedoms in this great country of ours,” he said. “Especially the Freedom of Information Act. And we come to find out the government keeps files on us. I expect—no, I’m sure—they’ve got way more than this, but this is what we’ve gotten our hands on so far.”
GraBois took a quick look. It was a heavily redacted file that spanned several years. It seemed largely unremarkable, but he saw the word “drugs” on one page, “runaways” on another. He put it down without reading further. “I want to be very clear about this,” he said, addressing the whole crowd. “I don’t give a damn about anything you have in your past, including what might be in this.” He swept his hand toward the report.
“When I asked you to come in, I told Barry that I wouldn’t pull your records or look into your backgrounds. I think you’ll find out I’m a man of my word.
“I don’t have to look into your background to know who the Rainbows are,” he went on. “I know there are people who look askance at the way you choose to live your lives, or the baggage that you come with. I couldn’t care less.”
The Rainbows listened without interruption as GraBois ran down his agenda—he needed them to find the Taylor family and convince them to come to New York, too. GraBois would hear their story and evaluate the case. If he felt it could go forward, he would take the Taylors to Warren, and ultimately expect them to testify against Ramos in court.
“How can you do that?” they wanted to know. “You’re a Fed and this is a state case.”
GraBois explained the concept of “cross-designation,” whereby in special circumstances, state and federal prosecutors swapped jurisdiction back and forth. What he didn’t say was that he’d seen state prosecutors come to the federal level, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard of an assistant United States attorney going out of state, especially a state outside of his purview. The Southern District of New York was more than 350 miles from Warren, Pennsylvania, and if GraBois were to get directly involved, it would take some serious finessing.
“Why are you doing this?” Adams was blunt. “We know why we’ve pursued this case for more than two years. This family wants justice, and we’re not going to stop ’til they get it. But what’s in it for you?”
“I have my reasons. Many of them coincide with yours. This guy is a menace, and what he did to Joey Taylor is unconscionable. As a father myself, I can’t imagine what this does to a family.”
GraBois saved his own stake in this for last. “I’ll be honest, though. I’m trying to put so much pressure on Ramos that it’ll get him to open up on the Patz case.” GraBois gave them the bare bones of his investigation, and the name Etan Patz brought a flash of recognition to the New Yorkers’ faces.
“But even if he doesn’t say another word, if I can do anything to keep Ramos behind bars, it’s worth it.”
The meeting ended on a hopeful note.
“We’re in town for a few days,” Adams said. “We’ve got some things to do. In the meantime we’ll counsel amongst ourselves. But we should definitely talk about this some more.” They arranged to meet again the next day, and after another round of handshakes, the crew left to do some sightseeing. Barry Adams had never seen the World Trade Center.
Here’s a present for you.” Adams had barely gotten through the door of GraBois’s office the following day before handing GraBois a picture. It was the photograph of the older boy who’d been on the bus the day Ramos had been discovered with the younger Taylor brother.
Joanee Freedom had seen that photo sometime after the ’86 Pennsylvania Gathering where Ramos was thrown out, and she’d realized right away Ramos had a long history with this boy. She knew him as P.J. and had first seen him at the Michigan Gathering with Ramos in 1983. When Ramos had left the Gathering so precipitously, P.J. hadn’t gone with him, and as the Gathering had wound down, Ramos’s friend Saxophone Sonny had come to Joanee with P.J. in tow to ask her for a ride back to New York.
“I need to take this kid home to Ohio on the way,” Sonny had told her. “R
amos and I brought him, but since he’s gone, I’ve got to get P.J. back myself.” So Joanee and Garrick Beck had dropped Sonny and P.J. at an exit on the Ohio Turnpike. Riding six hundred miles together between Michigan and Ohio had given Joanee enough time to remember a face, and when she’d seen the age-enhanced composite of Etan Patz in the investigators’ office the day before, she’d been struck by the resemblance to P.J., the teenager on Ramos’s bus. Now GraBois was, too.
“You just never know,” said Adams. “See what comes of this.”
He also told GraBois they had all conferred.
“You looked us in the eye when you talked to us,” Adams said. “I appreciate that. We feel a good vibration here, and think we can work together. But we’ve gotten screwed before, and if at any point we think that’s what you’re doing, we will walk.”
“That sounds fair,” GraBois said. “I really don’t foresee any problem. I’m going to pursue this case as far as it goes.” He had no intention of backing out, especially since he’d already given his word to someone else.
One week earlier, Jose Ramos had arrived back in New York to meet with GraBois again. This time, the prosecutor had a surprise for him.
“Jose,” GraBois said. “You remember Pennsylvania state trooper Dan Portzer?” GraBois had arranged for Portzer to fly up, to show Ramos he meant business. The trooper was in plainclothes, but Ramos clearly recognized him. His attorney hadn’t yet arrived, but GraBois wasn’t looking to engage Ramos in a dialogue.
“I don’t want you to say a word, Jose. Just listen carefully to me. Trooper Portzer is eager to help me reopen the case against you in Pennsylvania. I want you to understand just how serious I am. If you won’t tell me what I need to know, make no mistake, this will happen. I will do whatever it takes. Even if I have to go down to Pennsylvania and try the case myself.”
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