Another CO claimed that Kripplebauer was “personable, responsible,” and always displayed a “mature and good attitude.” For another uniformed officer, Junior was “kind and courteous” and a good bet to do “very good on the outside.” Letter after letter underscored his many good attributes, positive contributions to his surroundings, and favorable prospects for adapting to the free world. Reading the officers’ complimentary letters, in fact, one wonders what such a magnanimous figure was doing in prison in the first place.
The parole board must have been impressed, if only because they were hearing from their own front-line troops for the first time. If the more discerning members of the board detected a certain uniformity in terms of vocabulary, style, and syntax in the letters, there was a good reason. Kripplebauer had written them all and then had the guards affix their signatures to the positive commentaries. If nothing else, he was creative and industrious.
“I had good relations with a number of guards,” he says, “and asked a few of them to write something in my behalf for the parole board. Most of the guys said they’d like to help, but didn’t feel comfortable writing anything. They weren’t really writers, if you know what I mean. They said, ‘Junior, you write something good that won’t get us in trouble and we’ll sign it.’ So that’s what I did.”
Though Kripplebauer’s demeanor was exemplary and his multifaceted, military-style campaign to gain parole was nothing short of remarkable, he was repeatedly denied parole. And maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised. For years the Hallmark Gang had been an extraordinary problem in the state, and Junior had become an exceptional case, something of a prized catch. Not only was he one of the ringleaders of the gang, but he was also a tough nut to crack. He didn’t snap when they squeezed him as Wigerman and Seher had, and he wouldn’t hear of informing on his partners. Moreover, he had fought government prosecutors and lawmen every inch of the way and always appeared to be getting over on them, manipulating the system for his own benefit. They weren’t going to make it easy for him to gain parole, especially if one dedicated North Carolina detective had anything to say about it.
Larry Davis, a good ole boy from Greensboro had made catching the Hallmark Gang something of a crusade. He took the gang’s annual raiding parties through the state as a personal affront and was determined to nail them, to force them to see the error of their ways, to make them pay and repent. In fact, North Carolina’s version of Bill Skarbek did his FBI compatriot one better: Davis converted gang members into Bible-thumping, toe-the-line citizens. Both Tommy Seher and Teddy Wigerman had been miraculously transformed into God-fearing church-goers by the Greensboro cop. Detective Larry Davis was somewhat scary. Like Captain Ahab setting out to capture the great white whale, he was more than a little interested in making sure Louis James Kripplebauer never led another marauding party through his state again.
As Locke Clifford, Kripplebauer’s North Carolina attorney, wrote him in December 1983, “it appears that we are a long ways from getting you paroled.” Despite the massive effort to influence them, parole board members considered Junior “not parole material,” and Davis had a good deal to do with it.
Three months later, Clifford wrote to his client, “I am convinced that in order to get you any favorable consideration by the North Carolina Parole Board anytime soon we are going to have to get a recommendation from ....arry Davis, the detective who was in charge of the investigation.” Clifford said that Davis’ “basic problem” was “fear for the safety of some of your former colleagues.” And if Junior wanted any hope of getting out of prison, he’d have to “belly up ....nd put yourself in the same boat with their people.”
In other words, Detective Davis feared that Kripplebauer would terminate the lives of Tommy Seher and Teddy Wigerman if he got out of prison. In order to preclude that possibility, Davis hoped to keep Junior behind bars as long as possible. And the only way to escape this harsh scenario was to rat out his friends and partners and become a government informant like Seher and Wigerman. Clifford asked his client to “think it over and let me know if you want me to arrange a meeting.”
Several days later, Junior ripped off a note to his friend and legal advisor back home in Philadelphia, attorney Steve LaCheen, telling him about the “terrible letter” he had received from Locke Clifford. Though he didn’t go into great depth regarding the “freedom for cooperation” deal, he didn’t have to. LaCheen knew what Junior’s answer would be. Never a big communicator, Junior wasn’t going to start now. He just wasn’t made that way. Beginning his eighth consecutive year behind bars—with many more to go if Larry Davis had anything to say about it—Junior just tightened his belt, did his time, smoked reefer, perfected his handball game, and continued to work toward his release.
Parole efforts continued, and in late spring of 1984 Kripplebauer received another letter from his North Carolina attorney. According to Clifford, Detective Davis “has agreed to get off your back and recommend your parole ....f we will set up the following procedure ....o prevent you from coming back to North Carolina ever again to bother anybody.” The deal required Junior to “provide a detailed description of some crime that you have committed in North Carolina, e.g., conspiring to hijack a cigarette truck.” Moreover, the “confession statement” had to contain “sufficient details” for successful prosecution and would be held by Clifford indefinitely. Unless, of course, Junior returned to the state and Davis nabbed him, which would oblige Clifford to turn over the incriminating letter.
Clifford stated his discomfort with being a middleman in such an unusual deal and asked for his client’s reaction. Once again Junior was unimpressed but asked Steve LaCheen to contact Clifford so the two attorneys could discuss the matter.
LaCheen told Clifford the offer was “somewhat surprising.” Why, he asked, couldn’t they all “avoid a whole lot of aggravation” in addition to a “1,000 legal questions” by just making it part of Kripplebauer’s parole that “he not return to North Carolina?”
Later, in a memo to himself, LaCheen attributed “Davis’ paranoia” to the detective’s investment in getting “both Seher and Wigerman out of jail, living and working in Greensboro, and attending his own church. They have become personal friends and he personally guaranteed their safety.” Davis’ concern, according to LaCheen, was simple. “He presently feels certain that Junior will in fact try to kill one or both of them.”
LaCheen planned to discuss these issues with Clifford and Davis during a previously scheduled visit to North Carolina to see his imprisoned friend. After returning from his May 1984 information-gathering trip, LaCheen penned another memo for his own personal file: “Davis will not let up nor will he just let events take their normal course.” Davis communicated that “the only thing that would really satisfy him would be for Junior to give somebody else up.”
The memo also mentioned Locke Clifford’s belief that Davis was “absolutely paranoid” about Kripplebauer, and it wasn’t just due to his concern for “Seher and Wigerman, but about himself as well.” Clifford also stated that the “head of the Parole Board is a good friend of his, but absolutely refuses to stick his neck out unless Davis backs off.”
LaCheen was struck by Detective Davis’ fear of Kripplebauer and his determination to “harass” him at every opportunity. The North Carolina law enforcement officer might well “be waiting at the prison door whenever it is that Junior is released” in order to re-arrest him. Considering the parole embargo and less than impressed with Clifford’s representation of Junior, LaCheen believed it was time to discover whether another attorney might “be interested in this matter” and also time to examine the “parole law” to see whether “the board is abusing its discretion” in this case.
Over the next few years, a new attorney was hired, new strategies were pursued, honor-grade status was attained (normally a prerequisite for parole), and letters continued to be written on Junior’s behalf (including one from Tommy Seher). Still there was no relief. Kripplebauer was
buried. North Carolina had him and didn’t want to give him up. Unwilling to name names, perceived as a threat to lawmen, and of no great interest to the parole commission, Junior watched the months of the calendar pass over and over and over again. Though he did not give up hope or stop working toward his release, Junior recognized that he was paying dearly for his former forays through North Carolina as part of the Hallmark Gang.
THE LONG-AWAITED event occurred on December 11, 1989, and was as unexpected as it was unceremonious: a haggard Yanceyville correctional officer barking out, “Kripplebauer, get all your gear together. You’re discharged.”
“Whaddya mean I’m discharged?” said Junior, anticipating another prison transfer. “Where they sending me now?”
“Wherever you want,” the officer replied.
“Whaddya mean, wherever I want? Just tell me where they’re sending me.”
“They’re not sending you anywhere,” said the sergeant. “You’re out. Your sentence is over. You’re done.”
You couldn’t blame Junior for initially believing he was being transferred to another miserable, overcrowded North Carolina penal institution, since such abrupt and unsettling transfers had become commonplace over the last decade. But this time it was different; he was being released, his time was up. He had maxed out.
It had been quite a stretch: nearly a decade and a half of his life, a couple dozen prisons, and the years from 1975 to 1989 a shadowy blur of dirty cell-blocks, harsh overseers, and lost opportunities. Junior was still afraid it was all a big joke or, more likely, a ruse—that the FBI would be waiting outside the prison gate to re-arrest him for the Rooney caper. But, in fact, the seemingly interminable ordeal had finally come to an end. He was a free man again.
Cheryl, always one to make the most of a jubilant occasion, sent a Mercedes to collect Junior at the prison’s front gate and deliver him to the Raleigh airport, where an expensive suit and a ticket to Fort Lauderdale awaited him. Upon landing in the Sunshine State, he was met at the terminal by Cheryl and her equally beautiful sister, Suzanne, who was driving her fancy red Cadillac convertible. They drove him to a big party in his honor. The next 24 hours were a blur of back-slapping, joyous celebrations and introductions to Cheryl’s family and friends, but through the euphoria something was starting to eat at him. The next day at Joe Zonka’s, a popular restaurant in Miami Beach, Junior half-heartedly listened to the upbeat chatter and words of encouragement from Cheryl’s well-heeled friends. He appreciated the toasts and good wishes and luxuriated in no longer having anyone order him around. The freedom to move about was exhilarating. But one concern weighed on his mind: “What am I gonna do now?”
15. From Burglary to Drugs
CHERYL, A COSMETOLOGIST, was renting a nice house in the Pembroke Pines area and painting nails at an upscale beauty salon that drew a fairly comfortable crowd. Junior, keeping to his prison regimen, was up early every morning and jogging through the tony neighborhood in an effort to maintain his excellent physical condition, one of the few redeeming features of life behind bars. His reaction to the lush new environment was not surprising.
“You couldn’t help but notice the wealth that was all around,” he says. “I said to myself, it looks like I’m gonna be doin’ some work here.” But there was one problem; he lacked a partner. Junior had long ago bought into a team approach to residential and commercial thievery. During the halcyon days of the K&A Gang in the 1960s, a four-man crew was a staple of production work. He and Mickie often worked together as a smaller but equally efficient unit, but two was his lower limit. He just felt more comfortable with a partner. Junior was no Chickie Goodroe: working alone wasn’t his thing.
While he was away many things had changed on the outside, including home alarm systems. Companies had caught on and dispensed with operating keys and red alarm lights. Junior was unsure of himself as well as the new technology and believed he needed a partner if he was going to come up with some good scores and tackle what appeared to be more sophisticated home security equipment. New to the community, unfamiliar with the local criminal talent pool, and not wanting to get “totaled out” just after being released from prison, Junior was uncharacteristically cautious. Feeling pressed to bring in some money to support a wife who wanted the very best, Kripplebauer did something quite extraordinary: he went straight. He got a job.
“I saw a sign one day for the Fruehauf Trailer Company near Miami and decided I’d give it a try,” says Junior. “I walked in cold and said, ‘Do you need any help here? I need a job.’ The boss asked me what I knew about big rigs and trailers, and I told him I had a lot of experience. I told him I could do anything he needed done, repair a wreck, stretch a trailer, whatever he needed.”
The episode was the dream of parole officers around the world: a career criminal deciding to become a productive member of society. But there would be no storybook happy ending here. Although the work was hard, hot, and dirty—Junior called it nothing short of “backbreaking”—and paid a measly $4.80 per hour, those were not the reasons for his ethical relapse and sudden departure after only three months of work. That can be chalked up to something equally commonplace: marital difficulties.
“We were beefing bad over money,” says Junior. “Cheryl was definitely high-maintenance and had to have the finest of everything. Things she didn’t even need or really want became big purchase items. She must have thought I was gonna be rolling in cash and jewelry like I was in the old days. But now I’m breaking my back every day on busted trailers for little more than my pop was earning when he was working in the mines.
“It got so bad we couldn’t pay our bills and they turned our water off. I remember I came home from work one Friday and gave Cheryl my paycheck and told her to go to whatever utility companies we still owed money and pay them off. She came back later that night and I asked her if she had taken care of the bills. She said no. I said, why not? She then hands me a large shopping bag containing five telephones, the latest, most expensive models. We now had a new, stylish telephone for every room in the house, but no running water.”
Kripplebauer didn’t threaten his wife or yell; he did what any self-respecting ex-con would do. He gave Fruehauf notice that he was quitting, called his sister in New Jersey, and asked her for an airline ticket back home. He had had enough of Florida and Cheryl. As far as he was concerned, the marriage was over. Though they had been an ideal couple while he was incarcerated, three months together in the free world put the kibosh on their union.
Back in Philadelphia Junior quickly got a job helping Lem Byrd, an old friend, in the trailer business. Though the work was hard and the pay less than impressive, it kept him busy and let him send a weekly check to Cheryl. It wasn’t long, however, before Junior got the itch and started to look around for a crew. There was only one problem; there wasn’t anybody to work with any more. It was like one of those science fiction films where the hero wakes up one day to find the streets of the city deserted and everybody gone. Junior’s nightmare reflected the profound changes that can occur with the passage of time. Just as Kensington’s once-thriving textile industry was gone, so were the K&A thieves—gone to prison, gone to the cemetery, or gone into the drug business. Some, believe it or not, had even cleaned up their act and gone straight. Junior felt like a relic from some bygone era, the reprobate equivalent of the neighborhood iceman or milkman. He wondered if he wasn’t an ancient artifact that belonged in a museum.
Junior inquired about old friends and past associates; there must be somebody out there doing production work. The news was depressing. Jimmy Dolan told him straight out, “It’s over, Junior”—the K&A Gang, hitting the road, doing a half-dozen homes a night, it’s done. It’s over. Production work was a thing of the past.
Pressed to come up with names, Dolan could think of only one decent crew still working, but he told Junior he probably wouldn’t want to join them. Blackie Battles had a crew of about eight to ten guys. Some were okay, but others were incompetent lunkhea
ds. Jimmy told him he’d know some of the guys and be welcome, but Junior could see the downside. Hell, he didn’t need any more rats in his life. And there were already too many guys in the crew. They’d need two cars to go anywhere, probably drink a case or two of beer along the way, and require help getting out of the car by the time they got to their destination. Blackie’s team sounded more like a vaudeville act than a polished unit, and having just gotten out of prison, he wasn’t interested in doing any more time because of a slipshod operation. After giving it some thought, Junior decided “to pass on the opportunity.”
The pull of production work and the need for money didn’t dissipate, however. Kripplebauer broke into a few homes in New Jersey and Pennsylvania, but the experience wasn’t all that satisfying. He was setting off alarms and having to abandon his searches before he had copped anything of consequence. Motion detectors, heat sensors, and other high-tech security devices confounded him. He discovered that many of these systems could be neutralized by cutting the phone lines, but it wasn’t the same; the world had definitely changed. Burglary was a different ballgame now; it was no longer the fun and familiar enterprise it had once been.
Ever so slowly, Junior started to consider other moneymaking ventures, the kind that he had always refrained from, but that now seemed progressively more attractive—drugs. Junior weighed the pros and cons of the drug business, but he always came back to the same issue: he needed the money.
Confessions of a Second Story Man Page 37