by Jon Roberts
I couldn’t have done it without those cops. It was nuts what we did. One night I was talking to Lieutenant Mazzarella after we’d finished unloading a boat, and I happened to mention the speeding tickets I was getting in Miami. Lieutenant Mazzarella said, “Jon, are you stupid?”
I got a little uptight being called “stupid” by a dirty cop, but he explained, “Anytime you want to race, I’ll close down main street so you can do it safely.”
North Bay Village had two bridges on either side, and it was a straight shot through the town, perfect for drag racing. So a few days later I called Merc Morris. “Merc, let’s see who’s faster, your Ferrari or my Porsche.”
Lieutenant Mazzarella’s cops closed the street and used their radar guns to clock the winner. Anytime I wanted to race one of my friends, we’d go to North Bay Village. We’d bet bags of cash. We bet our cars. We bet women. It was really just good fun. That little town was my playground.
FABITO SAW I never ripped him off. I kept my word. It built up the bond between us. We used North Bay Village from 1978 until about 1980. We pushed thousands of kilos through the police department dock. Right down the street from the dock was the headquarters for NBC News in Miami. Reporters would drive their news vans past my cops unloading drugs. The newshounds had no clue.*
I never got caught in North Bay Village. In the years I employed Lieutenant Mazzarella, I paid him a couple million dollars. After I moved on, he started working with some real scumbags. They set him up, and down went Lieutenant Mazzarella and the North Bay Village police department.† Mazzarella never ratted on me. You won’t hear me say this often about a man in blue, but he was a good cop.
* Unless otherwise stated, “the Cartel” Jon refers to is the Ochoas’ Medellín Cartel.
* North Bay Village, connected to Miami Beach by the 79th Street Causeway, is a separate municipality consisting of three islands. At the time Jon “owned” the police department, the entire force consisted of about two dozen officers.
* Authorities described Richard “Ricky” Cravero as a “vicious killer” after they arrested him in the mid-1970s for running the original “Dixie Mafia” gang believed to be responsible for forty murders. Cravero was convicted of three murders and given multiple life sentences. He escaped from a maximum-security prison in 1987 and spent five months on the run. As reported by Dan Christensen in the January 28, 1988, Miami News, “Hiding Was Rough on Escapee,” Cravero was rearrested when spotted in a 1977 Cadillac driven by a former member of his gang, Charles Grasso, who himself had been previously convicted of beating an eighteen-month-old infant to death whom his girlfriend had foolishly asked him to babysit. Cravero died in 2005 while in prison.
* Cravero went to prison in 1975 for the murders detailed in a previous note.
* The Customs Service and Coast Guard both tracked smugglers along the Florida coast. But the Customs Service, which through the 1970s and 1980s built a fleet of increasingly sophisticated boats and airplanes aimed at stopping smugglers, was more focused on the “War on Drugs.” The Coast Guard, which is responsible for maritime safety, could never completely devote its resources to drug interdiction. As a result, smugglers perceived the Customs Service as a bigger threat than the Coast Guard.
* Until the late 1980s, the local NBC affiliate’s news studios were located in North Bay Village, almost within sight of the dock used by corrupt police to smuggle drugs. Today, the studios belong to WSVN Fox 7.
† Albert San Pedro tried for several years to open a casino in the Bahamas, going so far as to plan the purchase of a local newspaper to influence public opinion in favor of his scheme.
† The Place for Steak was a mobster hangout where in 1967 Miami gangster Thomas Altamura was executed by a rival while waiting for his table. Dino’s was a nightclub owned by the entertainer Dean Martin.
† As noted in “Three Officers Charged with Protecting Cocaine Shipments,” St. Petersburg Times, February 28, 1986.
‡ The “corrupt black guy” Jon refers to is Lynden Pindling, revered in the Bahamas as the British colony’s first prime minister following its independence in 1969. He led the nation until 1992 and died in 2000. Pindling began taking bribes from Bannister in 1977 to allow Lehder’s use of an island for cocaine smuggling. He was later caught taking $56 million in bribes in one sting operation. In 1982 the U.S. government accused Pindling of turning the Bahamas into a major cocaine-shipping and money-laundering center and imposed economic sanctions on the island nation. Pindling nevertheless retired from office as a popular leader and an extremely wealthy man. The island Lehder used was Norman Cay, on which he built air and boat transport facilities. He had a staff of about forty workers to maintain planes and boats and storehouses for cocaine.
‡ Jon’s story about his encounter with Paul Hornung—the 1956 Heisman Trophy Winner who was once known as the “Golden Boy” of the NFL—cannot be confirmed. But in 1963 Hornung was suspended from football for his role in a gambling scheme, which ESPN ranks as number four on its list of the ten biggest betting scandals in American sports history. Though Hornung’s suspension was for betting small amounts of money, the league was concerned about possible Mafia connections he had through the bookies he employed to place bets.
45
J.R.: When I started my relationship with Fabito, it meant I was done buying from Albert. The Medellín coke was better quality, and they had more of it. But it would be very dangerous for me to offend Albert. I had to massage the situation.
One thing I had with Albert was personal trust. Even though Albert was a cross-eyed psycho, the man had feelings, and loyalty counted. I’d done little extra things that proved myself to him. One night Albert came to me and said, “I need you to do me a favor.”
“Okay.”
“I need you to let Blondie live with you for a while.” By “Blondie” he meant Rubio, his enforcer.
I said, “Why does Blondie got to live with me?”
“He shot a guy in the brains and killed him. He needs to hide out.”
What happened was that Rubio fell in love with a girl. Rubio was a boxer. Boxers have big hearts. It keeps them going in the ring. As physically strong as boxers are, they get their hearts broken very easily. The girl Rubio fell in love with got his heart in her fingers, and she twisted it up. She left him for another guy. Rubio loved this girl so much, he got emotional and shot her new boyfriend in the face.
Unfortunately, he did this in front of a bunch of witnesses. He walked in and did it at the dinner table where the whole family was eating. My belief is, if your woman is fucking another man, what good does it do to shoot him? It’s not going to make her like you more if you kill her boyfriend. But that’s my view. I’m not judging Rubio. He was a traditional man in the way he handled the situation.*
I took Rubio in at the house Phyllis and I had on Indian Creek. Nobody would think of looking there for a big blond Cuban wanted for murder. Rubio moped around the house for a couple weeks, but he couldn’t take the inaction. He snuck out one night to go to the fights. The cops knew how much he loved boxing, and they were waiting for him. Rubio was a real man. He never told the cops where he’d hid out. He did his time and moved on.†
Grateful as Albert was that I’d helped Rubio, I could not count on a good vibe to make him feel better when I took away my business. Albert made at least a couple hundred thousand a month off the coke he sold me. With him, it didn’t matter if it was a dollar or ten million dollars, he was a cheap motherfucker. One time I was at his house when I realized I’d left my wallet at home. I asked Albert to lend me some cash for the night. The motherfucker handed me a twenty-dollar bill.
I reasoned the best way to handle him was to bring him a new customer to replace me. I had a friend, Joey Ippolito, who wanted to move kilos in Los Angeles. Joey was from Newark, New Jersey. His family was in the garbage business, but he got into weed smuggling and came down to Florida. Later, he bounced to L.A. and got hooked in to movie people. Going from garbage to cele
brities, Joey was a big success.*
Joey told me he could move fifty or more kilos a month in L.A. My idea was that he could buy his coke from Gary Teriaca and Bobby Erra, who were buying from Albert. For Joey, buying from them made sense because they were moving coke out to Gary’s friend in Aspen, Steven Grabow. He could pick it up out there, which was closer to L.A. than Miami. Obviously, it would have been simpler to sell Joey Ippolito coke directly from the Ochoas, but my aim was to keep Albert happy.
The other part of my idea was that I would go to Albert and suggest that he start buying his coke from the Ochoas. They would beat any price. Albert was a proud Cuban in some ways. But like most people, his greed was stronger than his pride, and he decided to buy from the Medellín Cartel.
By 1978 I’d traveled in a circle with Albert. I went from robbing him, to buying his coke, to making him into a customer of the Cartel. What I liked about this was, I earned my transport fee for the kilos I smuggled in for the Cartel. The more their business grew, the more I earned, and their business kept growing because Americans couldn’t shove cocaine up their noses fast enough. Everybody wanted more and more.
* Records indicate that Roberto “El Rubio” Garcia was initially shot at by a jealous husband whose wife he was involved with. Garcia subsequently lured the husband and his father to his house and fatally shot the husband in front of his father. While Jon’s version of the story garbles some of the details, he is probably correct that Garcia handled the situation in a “traditional man” way—assuming that man is a violent psychopath.
* Joey Ippolito, who died in 2002, was connected to the Bonanno family and had ties to Meyer Lansky. Ippolito, like Jon, is believed to have provided loans to developer Donny Soffer for the development of Aventura. After a conviction for transporting several tons of marijuana to Long Island, he went on to operate restaurants in Malibu and Brentwood, California. For a time O.J. Simpson’s confidant Al “A.C.” Cowlings worked for Ippolito as a bodyguard. Ippolito was arrested for cocaine trafficking shortly after the murders of Nicole Simpson and Ron Goldman and was the subject of rumors that he had ordered hits on the pair as a result of a drug deal gone bad. Through it all, Ippolito cultivated celebrity friends. Actor James Caan reportedly posted bail for him following a 1994 arrest. According to Eddie Trotta, a former criminal associate of Ippolito’s who subsequently went straight, “Joey is the one who made up the story that he helped kill Ron and Nicole because he wanted the fame. He was my best friend, and I can tell you he was a complete nut. He once broke out of a minimum federal prison work camp by having a limousine service pick him up. He made it past the gates, but they arrested him two minutes later.” Trotta was himself once arrested with Ippolito by the LAPD while the two were visiting their friend James Caan in his Los Angeles home.
† With San Pedro providing legal help, Garcia was acquitted of murder in the shooting death of his victim Rafael Torres. He was freed and appears to have turned his back on the criminal underworld.
46
J.R.: By 1979 my business was booming. I celebrated that year by betting a half-million dollars on the Super Bowl. The Steelers were playing the Cowboys at the Orange Bowl, and I put my money on the Steelers. Bookies took unlaundered cash, and paid unlaundered cash when you won, so it was almost play money. I bet mostly to increase my pleasure in watching the game.
When I bet, I liked to watch my games on TV. Sometimes when my team didn’t do well, I’d break things, and I’d rather do that in my home or in a bar where I’m comfortable. But a couple days before the game, Merc Morris called me. “You want to go to the game?”
Even though it was my preference to watch it on TV, I wasn’t going to turn him down. “Sure, Merc.”
He laughed. “Then you’ve got to pay your dues.”
That night I’m in the living room of my Coral Gables party house, and there’s a knock on the door. I open it up and see Merc with a wall of monster guys behind him—several Pittsburgh Steelers. Soon as they come in, Merc says, “Break the shit out, man.”
I threw down a quarter from my party stash, and everybody starts inhaling fat rails of the purest coke in the world. These guys were giants, and they snorted mountains of blow. A couple of these guys were heroes to me, and I was so interested, listening to their stories, it wasn’t until dawn that I thought, I got half a million dollars on these guys, and they’re fucked up out of their minds a day before the game.
It occurred to me that maybe I ought to call Bobby and put some money on Dallas to cover my ass. I said to one of the Steelers, “Are you guys going to crash from doing all this shit?”
I’ll never forget it. One of them looked me in the eyes and said, “Listen to me, bro. This whole Pittsburgh-Dallas rivalry is hype. They make it out like Dallas could win. Dallas sucks. I don’t give a fuck if I play at three-quarters of my ability and every other motherfucker here plays at half his ability. We are the better team. I promise you, bro. We are going to win. Go bet your fucking money.”
“All right, bro.”
Another Steeler said, “I’m going to get you on the sidelines tomorrow. You can watch us up close. We won’t let you down.”
“Okay, man. That’s a very strong thing to say.”
When I went to the Orange Bowl, I watched the Steelers win from the sidelines. It was a close game,* but they came through. The whole team went wild, but they didn’t forget about me. One of them ran over to me and said, “Bro, I hope you brought some shit for us. We’re having a party at the Eden Roc.”†
Before I went to the game, I’d told a driver of mine to wait in a separate car outside the Bowl with a kilo of blow. I knew that win or lose, the Steelers were going to want to party. I had my coke guy follow me to the Eden Roc. Before we even got to the floor where the Steelers were having their party, the elevators reeked of weed. Upstairs they had a suite with a row of bedrooms filled with an endless variety of women. One of my new friends on the Steelers comes up to me and says, “I’m going to get you laid. You like black women?”
“Bro, I like women, period.”
My friend points to a hot black girl, and she comes over. He says, “You’re going to fuck this man so hard he’s going to bleed from his dick.”
This girl took me away, and she kept at me for hours. It wasn’t until I was stumbling out of the Eden Roc the next morning, watching the sun rise over Biscayne Bay, that I even remembered I’d bet half a million dollars on the game and won.
* The Steelers won 34 to 31.
† The Eden Roc is a classic Miami Modernist hotel that opened in 1956. It’s now part of the Marriott Hotel chain.
47
J.R.: In early 1980 Fabito asked me to help with a new situation. His older brother Jorge had found an American pilot who was good at flying coke into the country. The Ochoas were always looking for new ways to move product. They understood that when you run something illegally, you have to always change how you do business. Over time cops get wise, snitches snitch, competitors move in. The Bahamas were getting heat from the U.S. government. On top of that, the Ochoas were leery of Carlos Lehder. I’d met him by then, and the guy was crazy. He was worse than Albert San Pedro with his voodoo. Carlos Lehder hero-worshipped Hitler. He talked about this openly. I don’t care who you are, if you talk about how you want to make a Nazi state in South America and become the new Hitler, people will lose confidence in you.
This new pilot they found could pick up their coke in Colombia and fly it into the United States, but there was one problem. He would only land his plane in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He owned a hangar at the airport there, and at the time Baton Rouge was not being watched as a drug-smuggling center.* That was a positive. The bad part was that this pilot had no interest in moving the coke once he got it into his hangar. He wanted the Colombians to pick it up. Louisiana was all rednecks. There were blacks and Cajuns in Louisiana, but no Spanish. A Colombian in Louisiana would stick out.
Fabito asked me if I’d go with him to Louisiana to meet hi
s pilot and figure out a way to have drivers pick up his coke. We flew on a commercial flight to Baton Rouge. On our way Fabito told me his family believed the pilot was trustworthy. But Fabito did not like him. Something about the guy rubbed him the wrong way.
The pilot’s name was Barry Seal.† We met him at a coffee shop in a Ramada Inn. Barry Seal wasn’t a tall guy, but he was big, maybe 220 pounds, and he made a lot of noise. He was boisterous. He looked like a braggart. When we sat down, he cracked a joke and overlaughed, so people looked at us in the coffee shop.
Fabito jumped right to business. He said, “Barry, Jon’s my friend. He’s my compadre. He is me. And what you and him do, he don’t have to ask me. You guys just get the shit done we need done.”
I would know Barry for the next six years. He was definitely a blowhard. He drove around in an Eldorado convertible with the top down, no matter what the weather. All I ever heard him say was “I’m the best at this. I’m so good at that.”
Barry could back up his bragging. He was a great pilot. He loved to fly. For smuggling, he used propeller planes. Small planes can land in more places and fly low under radar. But for fun, Barry liked to fly a Learjet.
Soon after I met Barry, he flew to Miami for a meeting. When we finished, I told him I was heading to a horse race in New Orleans. At that time the racehorse stable I’d founded to launder money was going strong, and I went to different tracks around the country to buy horses. Barry said, “I’ll give you a ride.”
We drove out to Opa-locka.* Barry had a little Learjet. It was a sharp-looking plane. When we got in, Barry said, “I’m going to give you the best ride you’ve ever had.”