Six Years Inside the Mafias: how I worked my way through college: a true story

by Yari Stern

  “That’s all right, Mr. Johnson,” the Judge ordered. “Please be seated.”

  Tom Horran escorted the mountainous individual, dressed in overalls, to the stand.

  “Please tell the court what transpired on the day in question, sir,” Judge Wesley coaxed.

  “Your honor, I don’t know what done happened. I be driving my deuce and a quarter--”

  “Please speak English for the court, Mr. Johnson. What were you driving?”

  “Yes, your honor. It be my Buick Electra 225. I be cruisin’ down the expressway after droppin’ off my girlfriend an goin’ home to my wife. Some kinda gust o’ wind came along and done blew ma sedan off the Girard exit ramp an’ on to the West River Drive. The next thing I know, I be ridin’ the highway upside down on top of a trash truck.”

  “Were you drinking, Mr. Johnson?” the judge asked suggestively.

  “Well, your honor, maybes I tips a little wine wit dinner.” Mr. Johnson turned and winked at the spectators after addressing the bench.

  The usual crowd in court stamped their feet, the applause meter for a good story.

  “Mr. Johnson, please confine your imbibing to the homes of your girlfriend and wife. $100 fine for driving upside down, proof of insurance or thirty days in jail, restitution to Gainway trucking of $500 to cover their deductible.”

  “Thanks, your honor. I be seein’ ya.”

  “Let’s make it at a Phillies’ game, Mr. Johnson, not back in my court. Next.”

  “The Commonwealth vs. Simon Abercrombie,” Horran called out. “Violation of section…Your honor, we don’t have a statute that exactly fits this case.”

  The judge turned to the defendant. “Tell us in your own words what happened, Mr. Abercrombie.”

  The judge leaned forward in anticipation of a story out of the ordinary.

  “Your Highness, sir…”

  “Lord of the Universe will do, Mr. Abercrombie.”

  “Yes, Mr. Lord--.”

  “I was only being facetious Mr. Abercrombie. Please continue.”

  “One minute I was sitting in my car watchin’ them rowers from da college go by. The next minute me and Esther and ma sedan is in the river.”

  Mr. Abercrombie took off his hat and scratched his head.

  “But, Mr. Abercrombie, the police found you with two live geese stuffed under your sweater, floating fifteen feet from shore in the Schuylkill River, and your girlfriend, naked, hanging onto the car. How do you explain that?”

  “They comes an attacks us while we was relaxing, minding our own business.”

  Judge Wesley was enjoying the man’s story. “Who’s they, Mr. Abercrombie and what were their motives?”

  “Da ducks!”

  “Mr. Abercrombie turned around to the visitors section and winked.

  He was rewarded with foot stomping.

  Mr. Abercrombie’s attorney quickly stood up. “Your honor, it is my client’s contention that ducks flew into his window and began pecking on his head. That said ducks then turned on Esther, ripping her clothes with their sharp beaks. In an attempt to escape, Mr. Abercrombie accidentally drove into the river. My client is lucky to be alive.”

  “And how many times did it take you to pass the bar, counselor?”

  But that’s the truth, your honor,” Mr. Abercrombie said with broad smile.

  “Are you sure you weren’t having sex when a flock of wild geese walked by, then you accidentally drove into the river while trying to capture some of those birds for dinner?

  “Your honor, how could you think that?”

  Foot stomping from the spectators section shook the floor.

  “Hunting in a restricted area, out of season, without a license, two hundred and fifty dollars fine plus towing costs. Use a fishing rod, Mr. Abercrombie. It’s cheaper and doesn’t pollute. Next.”

  “The commonwealth vs. Purcell Pinnery; murder, robbery, cannibalism,” the bailiff called out as he stared at the demure man shackled top and bottom and escorted by two marshals.

  The defendant kept checking his chains, trying to think like Houdini and slip out of his constraints and out of the courtroom while no one noticed.

  “Why did you shoot the deceased six times, Mr. Pinnery?” the judge invited, while remaining impassive.

  The man eyed the judge’s warily. One eye drooped, the other full of sin. “Uh…cause that’s all the bullets da gun would hold, yo Honor.” Mr. Pinnery looked at the judge like it was some sort of trick question.

  “Mr. Pinnery, did you harbor some animosity toward the deceased?” Judge Wesley kept rolling like it was part of a script.

  Foot stamping hit a new high level.

  “Yo honor, he done be diddlin’ ma wife while I works. Then he bought himself new threads wit my rent money. Ah gets kicked out onto the street an’ so ma wife moves in with him, an his girlfriend.”

  “And how do you plead in regard to the charge of cannibalism, Mr. Pinnery?” the judge queried.

  “I done told ya, your honor. He took my grocery monies.” Mr. Pinnery looked up with a “Now what did I do wrong?” expression.

  Mr. Pinnery’s attorney stood up and addressed the judge. “Your honor, Mr. Pinnery had been a vegetarian before these events unfolded. The change of diet has affected my client’s judgment.”

  “Yes, well, my dog has fleas but he doesn’t go around biting the heads off cats.”

  “But--.”

  “That’ll be all, counselor.”

  “Your honor, we are requesting a bail reduction. One million dollars is arbitrary, capricious and unjust,” the attorney insisted. “Mr. Pinnery lives in a house. How bad can he be?”

  “Your client belongs in a zoo, not a house.”

  Foot stomping rock the house.

  The Marshals started to escort Mr. Pinnery out of the court room.

  “Mr. Pinnery is to be held without eating utensils until his trial date.”

  The attorney and Mr. Pinnery quickly conferred. “My client would like to say something in his own behalf.”

  “If it’s anything but ‘Goodbye’, then no.”

  Foot stomping shook the room.

  Mr. Pinnery turned to his attorney. “What did he say?”

  “No bail.”

  “No bail? What am I paying you for?”

  “Shut up. You don’t deserve an attorney like me. Say another word and you can handle the appeal by yourself.”

  “Next case,” the judge ordered, reordering his notes.

  “The commonwealth vs. Yari Stern,” the bailiff announced.

  Judge Wesley looked up, surprised to see Yari being escorted to the bench by a huge Marshall who had his catcher’s mitt of a hand on Yari’s back.

  “Excuse me?” Judge Wesley addressed the assistant district attorney rhetorically. “What’s with all the formability?”

  “Your honor, the defendant is charged with possession of stolen property, specifically military weapons, with the intent to sell, transportation of said items across the state line, car theft, possession of class three drugs with the intent to sell. The state feels that, due to the seriousness of the charges and the possible sentencing to decades in prison, the defendant’s bail is set too low. We therefore request it be raised to one hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Well, I do not agree, Mr. DA.”

  “But your honor--.”

  “Was there some part of my statement you did not understand, sir?”

  “No, sir," the DA replied.

  Judge Wesley addressed Yari. “How’s your dad, son?”

  “He’s fine, your honor. He said to apologize to you for not being here in person. He’s teaching a class at the Police Academy.”

  “These are serious charges, young man. How do you plead?”

  “Not guilty by reason of insanity.”

  Foot stomping shook the room.

  “That’s not going to get you off the hook today. Who did you sell the guns to?”

  “If I tell you that, I won’t live lo
ng enough to get home.”

  “If you don’t cooperate, you won’t be going home. Now I ask you again, who did you sell the guns to?”

  Yari looked around, for an angel of mercy…or for a lightening strike to come through the roof and kill him so he wouldn’t have to comply with the judge’s order.

  The court room waited with baited breath.

  “I can’t say,” Yari said, barely above a whisper.

  “Louder, Mr. Stern. I don’t think the court stenographer heard you.”

  “I can’t say.”

  Murmurs floated through the courtroom.

  “Who was your contact?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “A name, Mr. Stern. I need a name.”

  “I don’t remember,” Yari lied.

  “How about you sit in jail for a few months. Maybe that will jar your memory.”

  “I need some time to decide. There’s a lot at stake here.”

  “Very well, Mr. Stern. I will grant you seventy-two hours to think this over. I expect you back in this court at 2:00 p.m. on Monday.”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “I’ve known your dad for twenty years. You’re risking his reputation and your freedom on some very poor decisions and very dangerous behaviors. This is public record and those things are not going to save you this time.”

  “I--.”

  “If you are a no show I will issue a bench warrant for your arrest and that’ll be added to your sentence. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The judge bang down his gavel and said, “This case is hereby postponed until 2:00 p.m. tomorrow.”

  At that pronouncement, a man in a leather jacket sitting in the back of the court got up and silently left the room.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Bala Cynwyd, Pa

  Yari entered the house, still debating what to say to his dad. He needed to break the bad news slowly, so he decided to share a hearing he witnessed while waiting in court.

  “Dad, I’ve got a great story from court today,” Yari said to his father who was seated at the kitchen table, ensconced behind the evening newspaper.

  Irene came over to the table and said to Yari, “Wash your hands, then sit down and have some dinner.” She then turned to her husband. “And you, Sam, put the paper away and listen to your son; he’s talking to you.”

  Both Yari and Sam reluctantly agreed.

  “A bunch of cops had a preliminary hearing for theft, misuse of office, conspiracy, and a file full of other charges. They were all smirking, like they knew the fix was in and court was just a formality.” Yari downed a mouthful of salad, then continued. “But the DA’s office had a secret weapon: a rookie cop who had been wired while going along with the veterans. Afterward, they stashed him away to protect him from intimidation, or worse.

  “You should have seen the faces on those police officers when they rolled this kid out. He was so clean-cut that you could tell no one in the room would doubt a word he said. The rookie went on for hours,” Yari related. “Every story he told was worse than the one before, but the accused cops never changed their expression, like they were above the law and the court.

  “After hearing all the testimony, the judge said to the defendants, ‘We’ve got enough evidence to bind you over on twenty-four counts of grand theft, concealing stolen merchandise, malfeasance and misfeasance in office, conspiracy, fraudulent conversion, and extortion. Are you going to answer our questions concerning the other men and precincts involved?’

  “Instead of throwing themselves on the mercy of the court, their spokesman stands up and says, ‘I don’t like that question, your Honor. How about serial killers for one thousand dollars?’”

  “What was the final outcome?” Sam asked grudgingly.

  “Here’s the newspaper report.” Yari pulled the wrinkled article out of his back pocket and began reading it to his Dad. ‘The portrait drawn from all the testimony revealed out of control cops and supervisors who apparently held in contempt the people they were paid to protect. The police officers were charged with brutality and corruption in a precinct where half the midnight shift transformed the streets into a gangland turf, beating and terrorizing residents and stealing money, guns and even dogs. They carried out everything not nailed down. Nothing was safe. Their arrogance, greed and expertise enabled them to seep into secured businesses like water oozing through the pores of decaying wood on a shipwrecked boat.

  ‘To thwart the would-be thieves, businessmen took vital parts of machines and equipment with them when they left at night or on vacations. In one instance, an inventive storeowner took the doors off of new refrigerators and freezers and carried them home every weekend in his step-van, thereby making the appliances worthless to anyone else. When he returned one Monday, all the appliances were gone and a single small note, later traced back to the same police officers, was left in their place: “Bring back the doors or we’ll burn your store to the ground.’”

  Yari set the clipping aside and said, “See, I told you the system is going to hell in a hand basket.”

  His father did not comment.

  “Sam, are you all right?” Irene chimed in. “You never react like that to stories of police corruption. What’s going on? We want to know.” Irene stood up from the table, hands on hips, and took a rigid stance.

  Sam fidgeted for a moment before beginning. “A few months ago, during the riots, I had to chase Frank Rizzo all over Philadelphia when he personally tried to set the city on fire. Yari was even there on one occasion. I stopped him twice before running out of time and manpower. He swore he’d get even, but I forgot about it with so much going on at the time.

  “Today, when I walked into work, Sergeant Kelly grabbed me. He told me Captain Solomon and Inspector Foxx were waiting for me upstairs. He said it looked bad and asked me what it was all about.

  “I tried to figure why the hell they would bother me when I was the only honest cop in the precinct. There’s more boozing going on in the station house than the neighbor-hood bars; and over half the patrolmen are on the take.

  “At first, I thought Captain Solomon was out for me. He was jealous because I graduated college while he only made it through the 8th grade. If it hadn't been for the Cardinal, he'd still be writing parking tickets on Market Street.

  “I walked up the stairs to the third floor, knocked on the door of Solomon’s office, and went in without waiting. The room was a pigsty; important papers and food containers covering the desk.

  “Even though it was Captain Solomon’s office, the Inspector took center stage. Solomon stood behind his chair that was occupied by Foxx. Foxx is a damn chameleon, on every side at once, never making waves. I figured right then and there it had to have come from higher up.

  “Captain Solomon asked me where I was the night before. I told him I was up at the housing project in the Northeast. He said that he was there and didn't see me. He had a big sarcastic grin on his face.

  “I assured him that I was in the homes, interviewing the couples who were beaten. Right then I knew he was trying to set me up.

  “’Did you see my car?’ I asked him.

  “’Yes, I saw it,’ Solomon reluctantly agreed.

  “’Well, I live in West Philly, fifteen miles from there,’ I reminded him. ‘If my car was there, I was there.’

  “Solomon’s face was turning purple from hunching over the desk and being ignored by his superior officer.

  ‘This is about your buddy, Frank Rizzo, about my over-ruling him during the riots, isn’t it?’ I challenged the captain.

  “’We're going to cite you for dereliction of duty,’ Foxx chimed in, throwing out his hole card.

  “Foxx yanked open the top desk drawer to grab the requisite forms, almost pinching Solomon’s hand in the process. The inspector pushed the papers at Solomon, who just stood there, numbed.

  “’Fill it out,’ I dared him. I knew Foxx was so intent on gaining Rizzo’s backing he’d do almost a
nything.

  “A minute passed, so I said, ‘Fill out the form with the specifications and both of you sign it.’

  “They didn’t move, so I raised my voice. ‘You heard me, both of you fill out the specifications and sign it. Tomorrow you'll be catching fish with the harbor patrol.’

  “’If this was the Army, you’d be up before a firing squad,’ Foxx threatened me.

  “’But it isn’t,’ I said. ‘This is the Philadelphia Police Department and I’m an honest man sitting in front of two thieves.’

  “’Will there be anything else, gentlemen?’ I asked. Their faces were rigid, like wax figures.

  “I got up to leave and said, ‘Did you think you could force me out over some crap like that?’

  “Just before I got to the door, Foxx called out, ‘No. We’ve got plenty more ammo against you, Sam.’ He then slid a heavy folder across the desk.

  “’What’s that, a record of how many times I went to the bathroom?’ I asked as I pushed the papers back at him.

  “’Why don’t you just have a quick look before deciding on the relevance?’ he responded.

  “When I didn’t move, Foxx reached out and turned a picture over and said, ’Here, let me help you.’

  “I read the inscription: Sylvan Skolnick, AKA, Cherry Hill Fats, Jack Trotter, and Yari Stern, son of Police Inspector Sam Stern, H.R.D.

  “Foxx delivered his ultimatum to me. ‘Yari is conspiring with known criminals. Nobody downtown is going to save your ass from this one. You’ve got ninety days to wrap up your cases and turn in your badge. If you don’t, we release the entire file to internal affairs and the newspapers.”

  “That’s just what I mean. Everyone works the system from different angles,” Yari retorted, “from their side of the fence.” He was certain his father would finally agree after they tried to push him off a cliff. “People are going to squeeze this city until it bursts like

  a bad pimple, and I’m not going to be around to get hit by the juice.”

  “You’re the one who‘s going to get it from both sides, dealing with people like Jack Trotter and Sylvan Skolnick, and breaking the law,” Sam warned.

  “You’ve played it straight and looked what’s happened to you.”