Blind Faith

by Joe McGinniss

  Gladstone tried to figure how much money a person could lose betting $131 a hand through ninety-three hours of blackjack.

  Then he studied reports from the credit check his office had made on Rob. A $100,000 home equity loan raised to its $130,000 limit in the spring. A $20,000 loan from the First National Bank of Toms River in April, and, in May, another $15,000 loan from the same bank. A $30,000 loan from the Navy Federal Credit Union. A $12,000 loan from Citibank.

  “Jesus Christ,” Gladstone said, “he’s borrowing more money in a week than I’m earning in a year.”

  Rob had seemingly hit the limit in midsummer, though, when his application to raise the credit limit on his Visa and MasterCard accounts from $2,500 to $10,000 each had been denied.

  Unless, of course, he’d turned to other sources. The sort of sources who don’t turn up in credit checks. The Vinny Gigliotti sort of sources, who can get you in more trouble faster than you would have ever believed possible, no matter how much trouble you’d been in before.

  Gladstone spent all day Thursday looking at those numbers. And then he thought of how much extra it might cost if you walked out on your wife and kids and set up house with someone else. Especially with someone whose tastes ran to silver and Acapulco, like Felice. And especially if you were playing ten or twelve hours of blackjack a month at $131 a pop.

  And then he thought again the thought he’d been thinking most of all—of how much money $1.5 million was, and of how it could dig a man out of the deepest of holes almost overnight.

  Unless he obtained it through murder.

  By Friday, Gladstone and his men had been through every registration card for every hotel and motel in Atlantic City back through the first week of June, when Marshall’s phone calls to Louisiana had started.

  They found that the September visit of Mr. Ernest Grandshaw of Jockey Club Lane, Shreveport, Louisiana, had not been his first to the area. Mr. Grandshaw had also been in Atlantic City on June 18, staying on that occasion at the far more luxurious Harrah’s Marina, the casino hotel most frequented by Robert Marshall.

  “June the eighteenth,” McGuire said. “There’s something funny about June the eighteenth.”

  Gladstone looked at him, puzzled.

  “Wait a minute,” McGuire said. “It’s the insurance. We just got word back on two more insurance policies on Maria. There was one for about thirty-three thousand—some exact amount, not a round number—to cover remaining college tuition costs. That was taken through some outfit in Boston sometime in July.

  “But the other one—it was a twenty-thousand-dollar term policy on Maria from Bankers Life in Chicago. And the date he applied for it was June the eighteenth.”

  “The same day Mr. Grandshaw is in Atlantic City,” Gladstone said. “So what?”

  “I don’t know,” McGuire said. “Probably nothing. Just a coincidence, I guess.”

  “File it away, but don’t forget it,” Gladstone said. “I’ve got a feeling that before this is over we’re going to have to build a new wing on the building just to store the coincidences.”

  Finally, on Monday, September 17, Gladstone heard from a Shreveport detective named Tucker.

  “Stopped by there at the Caddo Hardware, like you wanted,” Tucker said. “Me and Shooter. Shooter, he’s my partner. Short little fellow but he sure knows how to throw a dart. That’s why he’s called Shooter, you see. Has nothing to do with firearms. Lot of folks have that misunderstandin’. It’s darts, not firearms, why he’s called Shooter.”

  “How about Myers?” Gladstone asked, as patiently as possible.

  “Well, I did like you told me. He’s just a little squirt, too, this Myers. Hell, he ain’t much bigger than Shooter. A real little pissant. And shakin’ like hell, the minute we showed him our badges. I said right off, I said to Shooter, ‘This boy’s got one a them guilty consciences.’”

  Gladstone debated with himself whether screaming would do more harm than good and decided that it probably would. So he practiced slow, deep, rhythmic breaths, of the sort that he’d read in a book were supposed to relax a person, bringing a sense of peace and inner tranquility.

  “Pretty nice store they got there. Now Myers, he don’t own it. The owner is a fella by the name of, let’s see, I got it here—Train. That’s T-r-a-i-n. Arthur Train. He wasn’t in at the time, he was next door at the barbershop. He owns that, too. This is Arthur Train I’m talkin’ about, not Myers. Shit, Myers, I think all he owns is a couple a bowlin’ trophies. The man was scared to death. I’m tellin’ you—and I said this to Shooter right there in the store—I said, ‘I think this boy’s fixin’ to wet his trousers, Shooter, what do you think?’ And Shooter said, ‘Hell, yeah. Either that or crap in ’em.’”

  “Tucker?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  Gladstone spoke very softly and slowly. “Did you ask him if he knew either Robert or Maria Marshall?”

  “Hell, yes, we asked him that. What do you think we went over there for? He said he met the two of them up there in New Jersey in May. Met ’em at a party. Told me what a lovely woman Mrs. Marshall was. Said he even danced with her at the party a couple of times. Fast dances, not slow ones. Said her husband was right there the whole time, he danced with her, too. So then Shooter, he comes right to the point: he says, ‘Myers, were you puttin’ it to that lady? You have anythin’ goin’ with her?’ And Lord God, I want to tell you, he just turned red as a sugar beet. Said, ‘No, no, no. She wasn’t that type at all. She was a lady.’

  “So I said, ‘Well, Myers, she’s a dead lady now.’ And, you know, here I got to tell you somethin’ funny. That boy, he had a very strange reaction. It was like he was surprised but he wasn’t surprised, know what I mean?”

  “I think so.”

  “It was like we just broke bad news to him and he was shocked, but it was bad news that he was afraid he was going to hear. So it wasn’t really news in a way. Even though it was news. You follow me?”

  “I follow you.”

  “Anyway, once he heard she was dead—murdered, we told him. Shot right in the back with a forty-five, right there in that picnic spot like you told me. Right there on that Garden Gate highway.”

  “Garden State,” Gladstone said.

  “What’s that?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Never mind.”

  “Yeah, well, if he was nervous before, once we told him that lady was murdered, he started shakin’ so hard I thought his teeth was gonna crack. Shooter noticed it, too. Spotted it right away. We were remarkin’ about it later on. Shooter says, ‘Damn, that boy nearly swallowed his tongue.’”

  “Did you ask him,” Gladstone said wearily, “what he and Marshall talked about?”

  “Hell, yes, we sure did. That was why we went over there in the first place. He said IRAs.”

  “He said what?”

  “IRAs. Retirement accounts. He said Marshall was in the financial business and they got talkin’ about IRAs, and Marshall said he had a plan he thought might be just the right thing for Myers and so they chatted about it a while and then a couple of days later, he said, Marshall sent him down some brochures. He had ’em right there in the store, too. He has a desk behind the front counter there and he reached right down to the bottom drawer and pulled ’em out. Didn’t hesitate but a second. It was like he was expectin’ to be asked, knew right where they were right away. He had a bunch of ’em. Said Marshall just kept ’em comin’, even though he hadn’t bought one yet. The latest was from a bank up north there, Massachusetts, I think. Shooter, he recognized it. He said, ‘Hell, yeah, that’s a damn good one. That’s the plan we have in the police.’ Myers, though, by that time, he was shakin’ too hard to care much one way or the other about IRAs.”

  “Okay,” Gladstone said. “Thanks a lot. This has been a big help. Just one more thing. Did he happen to mention whose party this was, where he met Mr. and Mrs. Marshall?”

  “Hell, yeah, you don’t think we would have forgot to ask him that, do you? He sa
id it was a birthday party. It was in a restaurant in some town, I got it here, town of Point Pleasant. You know, you folks up there have some mighty pretty names for your geography. Point Pleasant. Garden Gate.”

  “Whose party?” Gladstone said. “Did he say whose birthday party?”

  “He sure did. The people were givin’ the party for their son, who was just turnin’ twenty-one, and the father’s name, I got it here, was John Riccio. That’s R-i—”

  “Never mind,” Gladstone said. “I know how to spell it.”

  John Riccio lived three blocks from Rob Marshall. John Riccio was big in sanitation. John Riccio was a cousin of the Quadrozzis and Gigliottis. John Riccio knew Patsy Racine/Ragazzo. Patsy Racine/Ragazzo knew Felice.

  On Friday, September 7, as Felice was being questioned and booked as a potential suspect in the murder of Maria Marshall, her good friend Raymond DiOrio, one of the most influential political figures in New Jersey, was attending the U.S. Open Tennis Championships at Flushing Meadows, New York.

  At 7:30 A.M. Saturday, September 8, he was back in Toms River, huddled over a Formica breakfast table at a diner on Route 37, agreeing to represent Felice’s lover—and his social friend from the country club—Rob Marshall, in the matter of the murder of Marshall’s wife.

  But even before that meeting, as his $4,750 bill to Marshall for legal services reflects, Ray DiOrio was busily working on the case.

  For Friday, September 7, the bill shows “extensive telephone conferences (long distance) concerning the death of Maria Marshall.” It does not specify with whom, or about what, DiOrio conferred.

  For the same date, the bill also shows “various miscellaneous telephone conversations.” Again, neither the subject matter nor the other parties to the conversations are specified, but these talks all occurred before DiOrio’s first meeting with Marshall about the case.

  For Saturday, September 8, the bill does reflect that in-person discussion.

  It also shows that between September 8 and September 16, DiOrio performed a number of other services as Rob Marshall’s legal representative. The influential political figure met at least twice with one of his closest aides “regarding factual circumstances” of the murder; he had numerous telephone conferences and at least one office meeting with Marshall; he made a personal visit to the crime scene; he engaged in an unspecified number of “miscellaneous telephone conferences and discussions” with unnamed parties; and, on at least one occasion, according to the bill, he had a telephone conference with the Ocean County prosecutor.

  On one level, Ray DiOrio’s relationship with the prosecutor was very simple. DiOrio had arranged for his appointment. Now, he was planning to see to it that the prosecutor became a Superior Court judge, which was something that the prosecutor wanted to be.

  Ray DiOrio had a number of friends in Toms River, including Felice Rosenberg, who was, in fact, rather a close friend. He also had a number of political enemies. If his enemies became aware that one of his friends was suspected of conspiracy in the most sordid and sensational murder in Ocean County history, it would not redound to his benefit. And if Rob Marshall had, in fact, asked Felice for the name of someone who could help him murder his wife, and if she had given him such a name—as she’d already told the prosecutor’s office she did—and if he had then acted upon her suggestion in any way that, however indirectly, had ultimately resulted in the murder of Maria Marshall, Felice could certainly face the possibility of a criminal charge.

  If, however, the prosecutor were to determine or decide that Rob’s original conversation with Felice was in no way connected with Maria’s death, then, of course, there would be no need to charge her—thereby sparing her, and her family, and her friends, much embarrassment.

  Within the ten-day period, from September 7 to September 16, that Ray DiOrio was active as Rob Marshall’s attorney, Felice retained new counsel for herself. The new lawyer’s name was Anthony Trammel and he, like many other people in New Jersey, was well acquainted with Ray DiOrio.

  And during the same period that DiOrio was in contact with the prosecutor’s office regarding the case, so was Anthony Trammel, notifying detectives that he was now representing Mrs. Rosenberg and that if she were needed for any further questioning, arrangements should be made through him.

  And at or about the same time, the prosecutor apparently made the determination that there would be no need to question Patsy Racine/Ragazzo. At least, no one from the Ocean County prosecutor’s office ever did.

  And shortly after September 16, Ray DiOrio made the determination that it might be in Rob Marshall’s best interests to find himself another attorney. Criminal defense work, after all, was not really the influential political figure’s specialty.

  14

  “Gentlemen,” Gladstone said to O’Brien and Mancuso on Tuesday, September 18, “we’re going to Shreveport.”

  There were no direct flights, so they flew from Newark to Dallas at 5:25 that afternoon and then drove from Dallas to Shreveport. It had looked close on the map but it was 238 miles and they did not check in to their rooms at the Holiday Inn until two o’clock Wednesday morning.

  They spent much of the day at Shreveport police headquarters, explaining the nature of their business. Then, in late afternoon, the three of them drove to Caddo Hardware on North Market Street. Andrew Myers, small and gray and, yes, with something vaguely lizardlike about him, was right there at the front counter, looking eager to please.

  They showed him their badges immediately.

  “We’d like to talk to you,” Gladstone said pleasantly.

  “Fine, fine,” Myers said. “How about in the back there?”

  “How about downtown,” O’Brien said. It did not sound like a question.

  “Downtown?”

  “Downtown,” O’Brien said. “Police headquarters. We’re not here to talk about Phillips screwdrivers, Myers, we’re here to talk about a murder.”

  They went downtown. They went into a long, narrow, featureless detective’s conference room and took seats around a well-worn table. O’Brien reached inside a manila envelope and removed a photograph and slid it across the table to Andrew Myers.

  “You know these people?” he said.

  “Sure,” Myers said. “That’s Mr. and Mrs. Marshall.”

  “You see Mrs. Marshall?” O’Brien asked, pointing.

  “Yes, I sure do, that’s her right there. A lovely lady.”

  “You know she’s dead?”

  “Well, now, yes, as a matter of fact I did just happen to hear about that.”

  “From who?” O’Brien said.

  “Well, those detectives mentioned it to me last week. Those two gentlemen from the Shreveport police here. But, in fact, I’d already known about it. It was Mrs. Riccio who told me. Carol Riccio, up there in Toms River. As I told the gentlemen from the Shreveport police, it was at her birthday party for her son that I first made the acquaintance of Mr. Marshall and Mrs. Marshall. And just last week I happened to call her and she informed me at that time of the very sad news.”

  “You called her last week?” O’Brien asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “What for?”

  “Why, to wish her a happy birthday.”

  “When’s her birthday?” O’Brien asked.

  “Well, see, now that’s the funny thing. I really do think I happened to call a few days early, or else it might have been a day or two late. Her birthday, you see—well, I know it’s sometime right around this time of the month. We’re old friends, Mrs. Riccio and I. We used to sell vegetables together back in Perth Amboy when we were children. Her family, the Capodilupas, they had a fresh-produce stand, and my own folks—”

  “Myers!” O’Brien said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You call to wish her a happy birthday every year?”

  “Well, sir, it’s one of those things that’s always on my mind to do, but I can’t swear to you right now that every single year I get around to where I
actually do it. Sometimes you get so caught up in your own business you overlook these little niceties.”

  “Myers?” O’Brien said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You know a guy named Ernie Grandshaw?”

  “No, sir. No, I don’t.”

  “How about this address—Jockey Club Lane. You know where that is?”

  “No, sir, I sure don’t. Would that be in Shreveport?”

  “Myers, what did you and Marshall talk about that night you met him?”

  “As I said to the gentlemen from Shreveport, it was mostly IRA accounts.”

  “Anything else?”

  Myers appeared to take a minute to try to recall. “No, I think that was it. IRAs.”

  “Listen, Mr. Myers,” Gladstone said. “If you don’t mind, we’re just going to take your picture and then you can be on your way. We appreciate your coming down here with us on such short notice as this.”

  “Oh, I’m happy to oblige, officer. Happy to oblige.”

  “You haven’t heard from Mr. Marshall recently, have you? Like since his wife died?” Gladstone asked.

  “No, no, sir. Not a word.”

  “Listen, Myers,” O’Brien said. “You being such a thoughtful guy and everything—maybe you’d want to send him a sympathy card.”

  “Why, yes,” Myers said. “That’s a very nice idea. I think I might do that.”

  “Yeah,” O’Brien said. “Try not to forget. I’m sure it would mean a lot to him. I understand he’s pretty broken up.”

  Bob Gladstone felt like a man who was trying to do a jigsaw puzzle blindfolded. The pieces were there, he could feel them, could feel their shape. He could run his fingers along the edges and could turn them over slowly in his hands. But he still didn’t have the slightest idea of how to fit them together. Or of what picture would emerge when he did.

  “You know,” O’Brien said, “Myers—he must be pretty tight with the Riccios. We’ve just found out what a bitch it is to travel between New Jersey and Shreveport, and that guy flies up there just to hit a birthday party for their son.”