Stung

by Gary Stephen Ross

  The one-day shutdown of the casino had ended New Jersey’s dispute with Caesars, but the bank’s legal ping-pong game was into its third year. In 1984 the CIBC launched a second suit, in United States District Court for the district of New Jersey. The bank sought to recover $4,732,626 U.S. from Boardwalk Regency Corporation (the Atlantic City operation) and $2,120,000 U.S. from Desert Palace Inc. (the Nevada operation), plus interest, costs, and disbursements. As in the Canadian suit, the bank argued that the casino knew or should have known Molony was gambling with funds that didn’t belong to him.

  The casino maintained it takes no interest in the source of a gambler’s money. Peter Boynton, the president, said under oath he did not ask his security director to look into Molony until a month or so before the arrest. “There’s a practice in our industry, widely followed,” Boynton said, “that with cash customers we do not probe who they are or where their money is coming from.” Many people wish to be anonymous, he explained, and would be embarrassed if friends or associates found out they gambled. “Our people are trained not to push for information.” According to New Jersey law, when a customer uses cash (rather than so-called credit) the casino is not even obliged to ensure that it has his correct name. Linc Ebert put it succinctly: “I could go in there as Dwight Eisenhower and no one would care less, as long as I’m bringing cash.”

  Still, the bank could point to many suspicious circumstances. Most people who gamble regularly with large amounts of cash wire it, they don’t pull it out of their pockets. An employee in the craps pit who dealt to Molony said, “We’d heard he was a very rich man from Toronto. I’ve dealt to a lot of people with money. You can see it — their clothes, their jewellery, their manner. Molony did not look like someone with money.” It might also be considered unusual that he would leave cash on deposit — sometimes hundreds of thousands of dollars — without asking that it be banked to collect interest. The casino said Molony was treated as any other player. Yet a man who worked on the floor while Molony was a patron said, “Walk in with that kind of cash and I guarantee you, the big boys are on you like stink on shit.” The casino claimed to have taken no interest in him until a month before his arrest. Yet Caesars’ own security logs record that he was placed under surveillance, and referred to by name, eight months earlier.

  John Connors said under oath that, on Peter Boynton’s instruction, he did try to establish Molony’s identity. He sent someone to the New York Public Library to go through phone books looking for Brian Maloneys in the Toronto area. The phone number of each B. Maloney in the book was compared to numbers Molony had called from his suite, but no match was found. Jess Lenz had the idea Molony was a horse owner in Canada. Connors said under oath he called contacts in the horse world but no one had heard of a Brian Maloney. Larry Woolf believed Molony had made money in the commodities market. Connors said under oath he called a contact in Toronto with knowledge of the commodities market. The contact knew of a wealthy Maloney family in Canada, but none of the men was named Brian. Connors said under oath he checked with Caesars Palace in Las Vegas. They knew who Molony was but could supply no home address. Connors said under oath he checked with the corporate security office. They could tell him only that Molony had played in Las Vegas, that he had apparently won at the Barbary Coast, and that a substantial sum of money had been transferred in his name. Connors said under oath he twice tried to “surveille” Molony in Atlantic City, so his people would get a good look at him in case they had to follow him to his residence. But on both occasions Molony departed unexpectedly. By the time the surveillance people swung into action, said Connors, Molony had left.

  People who worked on the floor at Caesars knew Molony as a banker. The pilot of the Learjet told an undercover police officer who passed himself off as ground crew that his passenger worked for a bank and frequently travelled to Atlantic City with large quantities of used bills. Molony had his photo taken at Caesars when he cashed traveller’s cheques. He provided Caesars with his birth date. He provided identification to the pilot for customs purposes. He spoke to Beck and Colizzi from his suite at Caesars, so Connors had their Toronto numbers. He always called Brenda from his suite, so Connors had Molony’s home number. And on April 19, when Michael Neustadter asked Caesars’ Toronto representative to inform Molony that there was a problem with the $920,000 transfer, the representative reported that Molony was already on the way to the airport. How could he have done so if they didn’t know how to contact Molony?

  None of this was any help to John Connors. As director of corporate security, his job was twofold. He supervised Caesars’ surveillance unit, which ensured the integrity of the casino games, and he directed its investigative team, which did checks on key employees. When anyone applied for a sensitive job, Connors’ people ran the background search. They contacted local police departments; they used their own informants; they might do any number of things to find out what they needed to know. Connors was in the business of finding out what he needed to know, but Brian Molony stumped him.

  Poor John Connors, Rutgers graduate, member of the New Jersey bar, and twenty-five-year FBI man. Imagine his embarrassment, having to break the bad news to the president. Connors had a substantial budget and a staff of twenty-five, yet he was unable to turn up the simple bit of information — who’s Brian Molony? — Peter Boynton had asked for. Information Boynton thought it prudent to obtain only after Molony had dropped $5-million cash. Information the Marina in Las Vegas had found it prudent to obtain after he dropped $45,000. Information any first-year journalism student could have obtained in ten minutes on the telephone.

  When the bank’s lawyers learned that tapes had been made of Molony in action the night before his arrest, they naturally looked forward to viewing them. It would have been fascinating to observe his demeanour, and that of casino personnel. The computer at Caesars could print out a marker every fourteen seconds; it would have been interesting to see whether Molony had requested each of the twenty-four markers he signed that night or whether, anticipating his needs, Caesars had preprinted them. Who knew what the tapes might reveal?

  When Bill Kisby, the DGE detective, learned of Molony’s arrest from his Metro Toronto Police contact, he went straight to Caesars, found John Connors, and asked for the tapes. Connors said the tapes had been erased. Kisby was furious — the DGE had specifically requested copies. How could they possibly have been erased? Routine, said Connors. The tapes had revealed nothing unusual and been cleared for reuse.

  Their exchange took place less than twelve hours after the tapes had been made. Caesars’ own procedures manual dictated that tapes be stored for five days before erasure. Casino Control Commission regulations directed that tapes made at the state’s mandate be saved for five days. Connors later said under oath that he had the tapes erased “sometime between April 27 and May 1.” He explained his decision as follows: “I left the tapes in the hold area and then, after three or four days, the supervisor asked me, ‘Should I retain these tapes any longer?’ I said, ‘I can’t think of a single reason why we should retain them.’ They contained no information that could ever be of interest to anyone, so I directed that he clear them.”

  As for the second tape of Molony, the one specifically requested by Larry Woolf, Connors said under oath that he chose not to comply with the request of Caesars’ senior vice-president. That tape had never been made. What about the Game Observer’s Report, signed by Shelly A. Jones, on which special tape #183 (Mon B) is noted as having been started at 3:41 a.m. and ended at 4:08 a.m.? Connors explained that Shelly A. Jones had been confused. She must have been referring to the regular tape — the one “routinely erased” a few hours after Molony’s arrest.

  In the course of the DGE investigation, eleven Caesars employees had been forced to give depositions under oath. When the bank’s lawyers learned of the existence of these sworn statements, they were naturally interested in reading them. They filed a motion seeking to compel Caesars to produce copies. So began a new
game of ping-pong. More motions, orders, and objections bounced back and forth. Questions of procedure, confidentiality, and jurisdiction were raised, objected to, and ruled on.

  Finally, in early 1986, legal opposition to production of the depositions seemed to have been exhausted. It looked as if the casino would be forced to hand them over to the bank. At that point, the suit was settled out of court. Rumour in the gaming industry had it that Caesars returned half the roughly $7-million Molony had lost at its tables, but details of the settlement were not revealed. For the bank, the original media deluge had been humiliating enough. The less coverage now, four years later, the better. For the casino, a publicly arbitrated settlement might have established a dangerous precedent. If people read in the newspapers that a casino had regurgitated money it had swallowed up, who could say how many sore losers might call their lawyers?

  For all their apparent differences, the bank and the casino also had this in common. Both stood to suffer if the case went to court. Their agreement included a non-disclosure clause. Neither wanted the story of Brian Molony told.

  By the time Caesars settled with the bank, Molony had been released on day parole to Toronto. There were those who urged him to move to another city and build a new career. He was determined to resume work in the city and the sphere he knew best. He joined his brother’s management company and soon saw a demand for a service he could provide. Many small companies in need of financing did not know how to approach a bank; Molony began advising clients with sound products but no financial expertise how to obtain funding. He visited Brenda, who was on leave from the bank, and looked forward to the birth of their baby — a son, he was certain. He quietly found jobs for people he’d met in prison, talked with other compulsive gamblers and their families, and assumed an active role in the Toronto chapter of a support group. The terms of his parole left him free between 8 a.m. and 7 p.m., and on some weekends, but he had to spend weeknights, along with five dozen other ex-convicts, in a halfway house above a post office in west-end Toronto.

  It was four o’clock one morning when the call came from Brenda. He had already made arrangements to sign himself out. By the time he got to the apartment, her water had broken and her contractions were coming every ninety seconds. She insisted on shaving her legs before going to the hospital. He picked up several newspapers but didn’t get a chance to finish them. Brenda went into labour before noon. During her extraordinary ordeal he could only stand by, holding her hand, as she had stood by him, and marvel at the creature who strove so mightily for its own emergence. A being of innocence and promise. Unmistakably a Molony. Unmistakably a part of himself.

  The baby gave Molony’s life a new centre. Like his mother’s death, his son’s birth put in perspective the myriad complications that awaited him. Release from prison closed one trying chapter of his life but opened another. Within two weeks of his release he received a letter from James Dube of Blake, Cassels & Graydon, acting for the CIBC. The bank wanted to hear his plans for restitution; otherwise it would consider a civil suit.

  Since the $10.2-million had been obtained by fraud, the bank could obtain a civil judgement against him even though he’d been criminally prosecuted and even if he declared personal bankruptcy. Molony negotiated with the New York lawyers for Lloyd’s of London and eventually made a restitution offer acceptable to the bonding company. He agreed to pay a portion of every dollar he earned for the rest of his life, or until he reached an agreed-on total. The total, no doubt, is considerably less than $10.2-million — the agreement is covered by a non-disclosure clause — but it’s considerably more than Lloyd’s would have recovered if the bank had antagonized Molony by obtaining a judgement against him.

  Having thus averted a civil suit, Molony was left with another thorny financial problem. Since the start of the embezzlement he had not filed tax returns. While in Joyceville, he submitted returns for 1980, 1981, 1982, declaring the fraudulent income and writing off his gambling losses. His 1982 return showed “CIBC employment income” of $12,083.74 and “CIBC other income” of $7,509,000.00. In effect, he asked that the money be considered a non-taxable business loss.

  Revenue Canada was preparing a tax-evasion case against Mario Colizzi and wanted Molony to testify against him. As in the criminal proceeding against Colizzi, Molony refused to testify. Revenue Canada decided, two years after he filed the back returns, to contest them. “The question of whether or not you are carrying on a gambling business,” a special investigator said in a letter, “is one of fact that can be determined only by an examination of all the evidence and your entire course of conduct. Therefore we require from you full and complete details and documentation of all of your gross winnings and losses …”

  Right. Recall and document every temperature reading of a fifteen-year fever. Molony sent off an eight-page letter that included a list of all the casinos and racetracks he had ever patronized and a year-by-year breakdown of his estimated gaming wins and losses. He concluded, “I feel my activities indicated a ‘business, calling, or vocation’ based on the following documentable facts: a) Extensive education garnered through a combination of reading and studying available literature, supplemented by hands-on experience. b) Development of statistical systems which reduced the house advantage both in casino and horse-racing environments. c) Time requirements were met, as I spent a minimum of 40 hours and as many as 100 hours a week pursuing gambling education and enterprises.”

  Like the nightmares of being back in action, the aborted deals, and the debts to lawyers, family, and friends, the wrestling match with Revenue Canada threatened to last forever, one more reminder that the ramifications of his gambling compulsion and historic fraud will follow him to the grave.

  “I remember Brian thanking me for what I’d done,” recalled Walt Devlin. “He said, ‘I appreciate the trouble you’ve gone to. I’ve got to get you some money.’ As if money is what makes everything all right. One of the things you find out when you’re gambling is that money doesn’t make everything all right. I said, ‘Brian, not everybody keeps score the way you do. I don’t want money. I want to be your friend.’

  “When I talk to him these days about how he’s doing, the feeling I get is of impatience. Things aren’t happening as fast as he’d like. Not enough action. When a guy self-discovers, he can’t understand why the whole world doesn’t forgive him right away. I’m OK now, and you’d better know I’m OK, too. I’ve worked hard to put this behind me and I wish you’d realize that. Can’t we just get on with it?

  “Maybe things aren’t as far along as he’d like, but remember where he was a few years ago. Completely isolated. Caught up in something he couldn’t understand and couldn’t tell anybody about, something that made him do things Brian Molony wouldn’t do. He derailed his career, shamed his family, humiliated himself in public. He had to stand in front of a guy in black robes with the power to put him away for a long, long time. At the age of twenty-seven he was looking into a tunnel and seeing nothing but pitch-black darkness.

  “Then he discovered he had a problem, and he went to work on himself. He systematically began to remake his life. Maybe he hasn’t bought into the whole recovery process emotionally. That’s just the kind of guy he is. He happens to be someone who conducts his life from the ears up. But he understands the importance of the process intellectually, and he’s doing what he has to do. Try going without something you’ve relied on every day of your life for fifteen years. Gamblers Anonymous claims a success rate of less than 5 per cent, and that’s a sample of guys who realize they’ve got a problem and actively seek help.

  “I don’t think Brian himself has any idea what a terrific success he is. If he fell off the wagon tomorrow, he’d still be a raging success. To see him playing with the little guy, lighting up at the cockeyed smile that kid has. To see him with Brenda and her parents, all of them together in that house. To see how far he’s come in a few short years. Sure, it’s important what happens from here on. What drives you nuts abo
ut this thing is that you’re never recovered, you’re always recovering. But whatever happens, you can’t discount what he’s done up to now.

  “Not long ago I did some work for a law firm here in New Jersey. They asked me for references and I gave them Brian’s name. Know what Brian said when they called his office and asked his opinion of me? ‘All in all, I’d rate Mr. Devlin’s performance as quite satisfactory.’ Brian Patrick Molony. He takes himself so fucking seriously. I’ll tell you, I don’t like this guy, I love him. Know something? Of all the people I’ve got involved with, only one ever took the trouble to sit down and write to say he appreciated my efforts. That’s Brian.”

  EPILOGUE

  “Let the games begin.”

  – A Guide to Casino Games at Caesars

  ew Jersey’s experiment with casino gambling has been, in economic terms, an extraordinary success. In 1986 eleven Atlantic City casinos had a gross win of $2.3-billion, more than the sixty casinos in Las Vegas. The gaming industry has become New Jersey’s biggest employer, ahead of New Jersey Bell and A.T.& T. Atlantic City, though largely in ruins, has surpassed its turn-of-the-century glory days to become the most popular destination resort in the United States. Last year it attracted 30-million visitors, more than Disney World.

  The remarkable growth in casino gambling over the past ten years has been accompanied by the parallel recognition and exploitation throughout North American society of gambling as a motivational force. In Canada, legal lotteries did not exist twenty years ago. Now they are widespread and contribute substantially to almost every provincial economy. More than half the states in the United States have lotteries. Television game shows — based on gambling — have moved into prime time and enjoy record audiences. At many racetracks you can bet on races at other tracks. In New Orleans every hundredth citizen disposing of his trash at the city dump wins a $100 prize. You can scarcely buy a hamburger or a tank of gas without being given a scratch-and-win card. The once-illegal numbers game is state-run, and television stations broadcast winning numbers. Newspapers publish winning lottery numbers. They routinely publish betting lines, point spreads, and detailed injury reports. Betting pervades pro sport, and television commentators talk about spreads and odds almost as much as the game itself, or the heavyweight fight.