Stung

by Gary Stephen Ross

  In New Jersey, the investigation by the Division of Gaming Enforcement yielded bountiful evidence of Caesars’ suspect dealings with Molony. The DGE filed a complaint charging the company and eleven of its employees with twenty-eight regulatory violations, among them the transferring of cage documents to Toronto for execution, the conducting of cage functions in Toronto, the failure to record details of Colizzi’s transactions, and the use of transmittal forms as cash equivalents. The complaint was highly technical and ran to seventy-five pages. The Casino Control Commission liked such complaints to go to hearings; a hearing would generate a neatly documented record and enable the commissioners more easily to grasp the issues. But a hearing was as tedious and protracted as a court action — motions, sworn statements from witnesses, orders, objections to orders — and Thomas O’Brien, the DGE director, wanted to short-circuit that phase. Time, he knew, was on the side of the casino. People change jobs; inertia sets in; new issues arise and supplant old ones.

  O’Brien told Caesars’ lawyer — Mike Nolan from Pitney, Hardin, Kipp & Szuch in Morristown, New Jersey, who was also representing the casino in the CIBC suit — that the DGE intended to hit Caesars hard. The casino, through Nolan, came back with the idea of a negotiated settlement. What about a fine larger than any that had ever been levied against a casino? O’Brien wanted nothing less than a shutdown. He wanted to tell the industry that the DGE had the clout and the guts to close a casino; that the dubious practices common in Nevada would not be tolerated in New Jersey.

  O’Brien and Nolan worked out a settlement whereby the DGE’s complaints against three Caesars people — Peter Boynton, the president, and Claire Lodovico and Katherine Campellone, the women who flew to Toronto — were dismissed. The other respondents — Larry Woolf, Michael Neustadter, Jess Lenz, Larry Bertsch, Bill Hessel, and Linc Ebert — were fined sums ranging from $3,000 to $10,000. The casino’s certificate of operation was suspended for twenty-four hours, beginning Saturday morning, November 30, 1985. Caesars was ordered to pay employees their normal salaries, benefits, and gratuities.

  O’Brien was happy with the deal, believing it showed the DGE’s resolve to punish regulatory violations. The five-member Casino Control Commission, which had to approve the settlement, was less enthusiastic. Commissioner E. Kenneth Burdge pointed to the “pattern of conduct in which greed outweighed the requirements of the state and the public interest.” Commissioner Carl Zeitz felt that the moral issue underlying the Molony case went unaddressed and that, if it had been addressed, “then the whole construct and concept of casino gambling as a legal industry might be shown to rest on a moral swamp.” He also noted that Larry Woolf, who bore final responsibility, had been appointed president of the Caesars operation at Lake Tahoe: “His discipline has been a corporate promotion.” Commissioner Valerie Armstrong was disturbed by unanswered questions about Peter Boynton’s role, by the casino’s “unsatisfactory” explanation of its inability to find out about Molony, and by its failure to investigate Mario Colizzi. Commissioner Joel Jacobson objected to the abandonment of the concept of corporate responsibility: “Mr. Boynton must, in my view, be held accountable.” He found it impossible to believe the casino could not determine who approved giving Molony the Rolex watch. And he felt the settlement imposed no sanctions “for the lack of moral judgement about the propriety of casino executives so blinded by the passion for a more lucrative bottom line that they go out of their way to pander to a high roller … financing his compulsive gambling habits by robbing a bank.”

  Despite these reservations the commissioners, by a vote of three to two, accepted the settlement. Molony had thus done something unprecedented. He did what Lee Harvey Oswald did not do by shooting John F. Kennedy, what seven Apollo astronauts did not do by perishing in the Challenger shuttle. In a roundabout way, he did what no one had done since the Flamingo opened on the Las Vegas Strip in 1948: he shut a casino. The closure, on Thanksgiving weekend, cost Caesars an estimated $1-million in lost profit. Dr. Robert Custer was invited to speak to the casino employees about compulsive gambling. The occasion is known in Atlantic City as Brian Molony Day.

  A pleasant-looking compound of utilitarian one-storey buildings and trailers, Bath Institution overlooks Lake Ontario west of Kingston. If it didn’t share grounds with Millhaven, a modern maximum-security prison, it might easily be mistaken for a community college. Molony was transferred to Bath and assigned to work in the kitchen that serves both prisons. Each morning he peeled carrots, onions, and up to half a ton of potatoes, which passed through a peeling machine but were finished by hand. Work began at 5 a.m. and ended at noon, which gave him the rest of the day to himself.

  A minimum-security facility, S2 on the Corrections Canada scale, Bath accommodates about 100 inmates. They sleep in cubicles rather than cells, and after thirty days may wear street clothes in the evening. As the information booklet says, the institution “tries to get you as close to the street as possible. To this end, the only fences are decorative.” In a strange way that makes them more galling. You’re close to freedom but far from free. To return to the street you must win a bureaucratic game of snakes and ladders. Each inmate has a case management officer, a living unit officer, and a parole supervisor — he’s part of many caseloads. After a prescribed period of time he may apply for escorted temporary absences, unescorted temporary absences, special escorted temporary absences, limited day parole, day parole, or full parole. Community assessments have to be obtained. Case management teams discuss the applications and make recommendations. The National Parole Board turns out to have a greater say in the true length of your term than the sentencing judge. Bath is not intimidating the way Joyceville is, but even a suite at the Ritz would soon become repellent if you weren’t allowed to leave it. The punishment of incarceration is not physical circumstances; it’s time. In Bath, as in most institutions, there’s plenty to do. There’s also nothing to do except wait.

  September 9. Police cancelled all inmate passes during the Pope’s visit. Apparently they need all available manpower to provide security. An inmate says, “Who the fuck does the Pope think he is?”

  September 22. Many inmates working in the kitchen bear a striking resemblance to Anthony Perkins when they have a knife in their hands.

  October 2. Played hockey for Bath for the first time. Went to Deseronto. I knew I was in trouble when I looked up at the score clock. It was sponsored by the CIBC.

  October 9. Played hockey again. We lost by four goals. I’m not in great shape, but at least I’m not slowed down by drugs. Went to McDonald’s afterwards. The bus has CORRECTIONS CANADA on it in huge letters. They park behind the restaurant so nobody can see it. On the way out one of the inmates says, “Look, there’s a busload of convicts out there!” Men wrap protective arms around women and children.

  October 15. The cook slipped while grinding meat and lost the tip of his finger. An inmate and a guard looked for the fingertip but couldn’t find it. After considerable debate, the meat was thrown out.

  October 16. The ties worn by Corrections Canada staff are clipons. The guards can’t be strangled with them.

  November 1. Went back to Joyceville to shoot the film. Felt like an outsider even though I’ve only been out of there 2½ months. The librarian, a minister, assumed I was back because I’d screwed up. “Too bad,” he said. “You can have a job with me if you like.”

  November 4. Sitting in my cell, I can hear the sounds of a card game down the hall, inmates coughing from smoking marijuana, a guy being beaten up. Deprivation of freedom is a very real punishment.

  November 7. An inmate got sent to Millhaven for threatening an LU [living unit officer]. Deep scars on both sides of his nose, somebody tried to bite it off in a fight. R. told me it’s painful, as bad as when someone bites off your ear. I’ll take his word for it.

  November 15. Who learns from the prison experience? Only the first-timer. Someone who’s returning knows what to expect and finds old friends and acquaintances. A se
nse of belonging.

  December 25. Christmas. Inmate walks down the hall. “Ho, ho, fucking ho.”

  December 28. Allowed to use the barbequefor Brenda’s visit. Try finding charcoal in Kingston in the winter. Brenda finally found a 7-Eleven with three bags left. The guy tried to sell her a beach ball and sand bucket.

  January 5. Inmates as human inventory. A portion of the inventory is damaged goods. A portion is potentially useful, with refurbishing. A portion is simply waiting on the shelf for productive utilization. I would hope I was once damaged goods but am now ready and waiting for productive utilization.

  January 12. Inmate here, an alcoholic, mixes Listerine and Diet Coke. Screams all night, “Come in! Door’s open!” In the morning he spits out his apple juice and says, “Yuck. How do you expect people to drink this crap?”

  January 23. One time OPP cops went into Millhaven to play baseball with the cons. The OPP complained about the noise, sounded like there was going to be a riot. Next time the OPP came back 400 inmates sat through the whole game without making a sound. So the story goes.

  January 31. I’ve met one guy who strangled his wife, one who shot his wife, one who electrocuted his wife, one who drowned his wife. Great place to improve your interpersonal skills.

  February 2. Cell thief was caught and beaten quite badly. Someone suggested that each of his fingers be broken, so inmates at the next prison would know why he’d been shipped there.

  February 7. Stu and Patti came to see me. Their house was broken into while they were here. I mentioned it to R. He did break and enters until his own place was broken into. He felt so defiled he never did another B & E. He took up armed robbery instead.

  February 11. Turned down for day parole.

  March 1. The goalie at Millhaven was killed after a hockey game. His street partner killed him. Heavy betting on the game. It might have been fixed.

  March 14. Went on an ETA [escorted temporary absence] with another guy. Went to a movie, “Witness” with Harrison Ford. There’s a tender moment when the female lead needs affection. The theatre is quiet. This guy yells, “Throw her on the floor! Do it!”

  March 15. An inmate says, “My wife hasn’t visited me. I should break her nose again. It’d be the fifth time.”

  April 16. An inmate masturbated on the front window of the car of the woman who teaches life skills.

  April 29. Three-day pass. Had lunch with K. He has a Chinese friend who went to Atlantic City and got picked up by the limo at Philadelphia. The limo driver found out he was from Toronto. “I used to drive a guy from Toronto all the time. Brian Molony. Whatever happened to him?” “Brian Molony,” said the Chinese guy. “Oh, he’s our prime minister now.”

  May 2. An inmate has crapped his bed three times in two weeks. Turns out his father started sodomizing him when he was four or five years old. No control over his bowels.

  May 7. There’s a guy here who puts ads in the personal section of “The Globe.” You wouldn’t recognize him from his description in the ads. He’s a scum, yet women drive three hours from Toronto to see him, bringing food for the barbeque. Why?

  May 14. I don’t think they should segregate white-collar guys and give them special treatment. The white-collar guys are the real screwups. We began with skills and opportunities the other guys never had.

  Molony needed an outside job to qualify for day parole. When he returned to Joyceville to shoot the orientation film, he met David Pulver, a reporter on the Kingston Whig-Standard. Pulver introduced him to a group of Kingston businessmen who had opened a retail computer store. They had few management skills; after a brief chat it was clear that Molony could help them. They hired him, and he obtained limited day parole to work in Kingston. The store was changing from an independent to a national franchise outlet. Molony found space and arranged financing; he negotiated the franchise agreement and the lease. He worked diligently at the computer store — two days a week, then three, then five, returning each night to Bath. And he began obtaining monthly passes, to return to Toronto and spend the weekend with Brenda.

  Even minimum security is deadeningly repetitious, and the most optimistic inmate soon adopts a kind of reverse incentive — the desire to put the experience behind him rather than the eager anticipation of possibilities. That suddenly changed with Brenda’s news that she had missed her period, and seen the doctor, and had a wonderful surprise. Brian thought the idea of being a father would have frightened him. Despite his financial straits and the uncertainty of his future, he was as thrilled as Brenda by the prospect of a child. Suddenly his objectives were immediate and concrete. He saved every cent of the $20 a day he earned at the computer store and the $5.90 a day he earned peeling vegetables, and put renewed effort into persuading the Parole Board of his suitability for release.

  On a three-day pass, Brian and Brenda were married by the priest from Bath at the Catholic church in Enterprise, Ontario. The wedding and the reception, at an Italian restaurant in Kingston, were family affairs, though Sieg and Sheila came from Milton, Stu and Patti from Toronto, and Doug and Nicole from Sarnia. When Molony signed himself back into the institution on Sunday night, his living unit officer asked how he’d spent the weekend.

  “I got married,” said Molony. “How was your weekend?”

  “I’d read about this guy Molony while I was on the run,” recalled Benny S., a lawyer convicted of breach of trust. “The whole scam was reported in the San Francisco paper and he was a hero to me in a sick sort of way. In Bath one day I saw a notice on the bulletin board — ‘Gambling problem? Want to do something about it? See Brian Molony.’ I introduced myself and said I was interested. It turned out I knew one of his bookies, and I’d come across his friends at card games. We started talking about our gambling experiences and became friends.

  “Brian was a good con. He kept to himself, minded his own business. He could always defuse a situation with his humour and his intelligence. He never talked down to anyone, and he became friends with people from lower stations in life in a genuine way. I remember one guy he was friends with was a bank robber. Nobody disliked him.

  “He subscribed to all the newspapers and magazines, and he was very active in sports, organizing games, playing hockey, shovelling off the racquetball court so they could play in winter. He definitely had a compulsive side. The sports were like going from heroin to methadone. We’d play gin rummy for fun in the cafeteria, putting the same intensity into it. Gambling has caused me all kinds of problems, yet I sometimes dream of the day when I’ll be able to go back to it. I haven’t completely admitted to myself I’m licked. I don’t think many of us have. Brian was heavily involved in the gambling program, he helped keep it going, but I’m not sure he ever really believed he was a compulsive gambler. He certainly couldn’t accept that he was a lousy gambler. He’s a bright guy, highly intelligent, but not when it comes to his gambling. These guys weren’t sending a plane for him because he was a good gambler.

  “In jail you hear a lot of talk about how horny guys are, how they’re going to get laid. Brian never made remarks of that kind, before he and Brenda got married or after. He has principles, and he’s terribly moral. I don’t think he ever believed he was stealing from the bank, just borrowing. That’s why he never tipped the dealers or used the money for anything else. Maybe it’s why he never enjoyed the benefits they make available to big gamblers. It wasn’t his money. He viewed it as a loan.

  “When we talked about getting out, he didn’t think there’d be a big adjustment. I told him, ‘Remember, you’ll have a record.’ He thought people would be a lot more accepting and understanding than they are. He wanted to become a financial advisor, putting together deals and helping people get funding. How’s he going to make it in a business that relies on trust? I told him he should declare bankruptcy, but he said he was going to make settlement offers. He’s facing a financial situation that’s hopeless, yet he’s determined to resolve it. He’s a stubborn Irishman. He won’t admit defeat.

>   “Brian’s story is exceptional only because of the amount of money involved. In terms of what he put his family and friends through, he caused a lot less suffering than most compulsive gamblers. When I was in action, I wouldn’t show up at weddings, dinners, family affairs. One Friday I was at the airport, on the way to Atlantic City, when I found out my wife and kids had been evicted from the house. The mortgage was $18,000 in arrears. I had $50,000 in my pocket. I said, ‘Can’t you stay at your mother’s for the weekend? I’ll be back Monday, we’ll look after it then.’ When I was gambling I didn’t care about anyone else. I once extorted money from another lawyer. I once phoned an acquaintance and said, ‘My father died, can you send me $350 so I can come back for his funeral?’ Tell me, what kind of person would do such a thing?

  “Brian never became that kind of animal. Maybe he didn’t have to, having access to the bank’s money. Unlike most compulsive gamblers, he never ripped off the people close to him. Maybe that’s one reason why Brenda was so dedicated while he was in jail. She drove up every week, through snowstorms and everything. There can’t be many women that devoted and strong. They’d sit in the visiting room, talking and playing gin for hours and hours. My wife never came to see me, but then Brian didn’t hurt Brenda the way I hurt my wife. He kept her sheltered from what was going on. He protected her.

  “A compulsive gambler is two people, one hurting the other. You know the way you’ll see a stranger and think, ‘I don’t like that guy.’ A compulsive gambler has that attitude toward a part of himself. As a banker, Brian was concerned when a customer was twenty dollars overdrawn. He’d get upset at Brenda if she couldn’t get by on so much a month. As a gambler, he’d blow a million dollars in a night. What’s that all about? One side hurting the other. At some level the compulsive gambler hates himself, he’s unconsciously trying to destroy himself. Brian was a very capable guy. He was from a good family, he had an outstanding career at the bank, he was definitely headed for the top. I wonder what his problem really was.”