Confessions of a Master Jewel Thief

by Bill Mason

  Not enough of a difference, though. It was still hell for me being caged like that with no idea how long it would go on. I began to develop stomach pains, not an unusual situation for inmates getting bad food and a lot of stress, but these were different and wouldn’t go away. There was no doctor in the jail, just a jaded nurse who had heard every kind of malarkey you could possibly imagine and didn’t believe anything was really wrong with somebody unless he’d already lost most of his blood or a limb. She gave me a handful of Rolaids and sent me away, but the pains got worse and I told Fred. He raised some holy hell and got permission for me to see an outside doctor, who examined me and then said to the two guards who’d accompanied me, “I want to see him again in three weeks,” and named a specific day and time in late September. He must have been new to examining prisoners, because he’d violated a basic tenet of prison procedure: Never let an inmate know exactly when he’s going outside. Excursions outside the walls were prime escape opportunities, and knowing when it was going to happen made the job infinitely easier.

  When we got back to the jail, I found out my appeal to the Fourth District had been turned down. My desperation level jumped right off the scale and I got in touch with Bill Welling, who by then had moved to Florida.

  When he came by the next day, I knew he’d sensed instantly what I had in mind from the way he looked around to make sure we couldn’t be overheard by a guard. “So what’s up?” he asked as he took a seat opposite me.

  “I’m going out,” I told him. “Three weeks from yesterday, to see a doctor.”

  “You been there before?” he asked, ever savvy.

  I told him everything I could remember about the layout of the building where the doctor had his office. “If you could somehow get in the elevator with me,” I said, “we could take the guard on the way up. He’ll have the keys to the shackles, and we can get them off me and onto him, then tie him up somewhere.” That was assuming only one of the guards would be taking me up.

  “Lot of scuffling,” Welling mused. “Patients going in and out . . .”

  “From what I saw, it’s mostly elderly people. We do it fast, there’s confusion, nobody knows what to make of it until we’re gone.” It wasn’t the best of plans, but I didn’t see a lot of options.

  We talked some more, then Welling left and came back two days later. He’d been to the doctor’s building and had a thorough look around. “There’s a back hallway behind the patients’ entrance to your doctor’s office,” he reported. “It’s less than twenty feet from the elevator. If we get the guard under control before the door opens, you can go see if the coast is clear before we bring him out and stash him in the hallway.”

  For the next three weeks I agonized about whether to attempt an escape. Not only was it a pretty risky proposition, but even if it worked, I’d be a fugitive. Aside from an assault on a cop, nothing gets the law enforcement community more enraged than an escape. It was tough enough to get a conviction, even tougher to get a prison sentence, and each guy who got incarcerated was a victory for truth, justice and the American way. An escape was a nose-thumb at those who’d labored to put the guy away, and the ultimate humiliation for prison authorities whose only function was to keep prisoners inside. They would hunt me down like a dog and, once they’d found me, wouldn’t concern themselves with the niceties normally accorded an apprehended suspect. I wouldn’t be a suspect, innocent until proven guilty and entitled to civil treatment until the state could prove otherwise. I’d be guilty as hell, with no further debate required.

  I was also getting sicker. If there was something seriously wrong with me that required real medical attention, maybe even surgery, I’d have to go to Outer Mongolia to find a hospital that hadn’t been notified to be on the lookout for me. There was also the possibility that I could be released legitimately before too long, and walk free again rather than spend the rest of my life running and looking over my shoulder. If I busted out, there would no longer be any chance of living a normal life; even if I was eventually exonerated of all the charges pending against me at the time, the escape itself was still a serious felony and there’d be no beating that. On the other hand, if I didn’t escape and then all of my appeals failed, I would have blown the one real shot I had at getting away and would regret it forever.

  By the time the day of my appointment rolled around, I still hadn’t been able to come to a final decision. I’d been in for over eight months and my self-reliance had suffered to the point where I didn’t trust myself to make important decisions. In my darker moments I had to admit that the ones I’d made before all of these troubles began weren’t so hot to begin with, so why should I think I’d be any better at it now?

  My shackles were chained to a steel bar inside the prison van. When we pulled up to the entrance of the medical building, a guard came in to unlock the chain and I shuffled to the door. I got out slowly—there’s no way to move fast when your hands and feet are bound—and as I stepped awkwardly down to the pavement, I saw Bill Welling leaning against a low stone wall lining a garden near the entrance. He was lounging with feigned casualness and appeared to be somebody who had perhaps accompanied a patient and just sneaked out for a quick smoke, but he was watching me carefully. At that moment it occurred to me how hugely self-centered I’d been once again, so focused on what would happen to me under a dozen different scenarios that I’d never taken him into account. Here was a friend willing to lay his own freedom on the line, maybe even his life if things went really sour, and I hadn’t considered the effect on him of what I was about to do.

  Or Barbara. Or the kids.

  I felt a mild push from the side, one of the guards letting me know it was time to go. Welling kicked off the wall at the same time, preparing to precede me inside and make sure we got into the same elevator. He gave one last glance in my direction, and when I was sure he was looking at me, I shook my head: No go.

  After a moment’s hesitancy, Welling whipped his head around and began patting his pockets, as though he’d lost or forgotten something, then turned back toward the stone wall and pretended to hunt around on the ground as I passed him by, the window of opportunity closing with an almost audible sigh behind me.

  After two more visits to the doctor, and some telephone arguing between him and prison authorities that I couldn’t quite make out from the next room, I was informed that I needed gallbladder surgery. This time they didn’t tell me when, but one morning they came for me and took me to the hospital, where I was chained to a bed, even after pre-op sedation and as I was being wheeled into the O.R.

  Afterward they had three shifts of guards watching me. They were a pretty aloof bunch, which was strange, because I knew a couple of them and they’d been pretty decent to me in the prison. Now there was only one who was being civil, spending time sitting by my bed, talking or playing cards, but he seemed to take a lot of care in not letting the others know we were on friendly terms.

  He eventually let on that the Bureau of Prisons, or whatever they called it, was ticked about having to foot the bill for the surgery, the hospital stay, the extra guards and all the other expenses of my medical care. Everybody knew that I was not to be “coddled,” and there were apparently a lot of heated arguments about what my medical care should consist of. Just a couple of days after the surgery I was taken back to the prison, where their idea of a recovery room was an isolation cell with a bare wooden bench instead of a bed or even a cot, and rat shit all over the floor. This was while I still had drain tubes hanging out of my side.

  When Fred found out I’d been taken from the hospital, he went ballistic and came to the jail insisting on speaking to me. When the warden refused, on the basis of my being too sick to have visitors, Fred barreled his way into Judge Tyson’s chambers and demanded to know what someone too ill to speak with his attorney was doing in the Broward County Jail. Tyson granted an emergency hearing, but even when I was brought into the courtroom looking like death warmed over, with Barbara standing nearby in
tears, he refused to send me back to the hospital, but did order the warden to put me back in a regular cell that at least had a mattress, thin and dirty as it was.

  Barb then went to the doctor’s office and told him what was going on. At his insistence—by this time I think he had more animosity toward the authorities than I did—I was taken back to the hospital.

  The doctor had made his point powerfully, and the prison authorities must not have thought they could easily get me back to the jail again. With hospital bills mounting, they didn’t object when my lawyers requested another hearing in front of Tyson, which was set for November 3. The warden himself showed up and testified that they were unable to care for me properly. I would have liked to make the case that I wouldn’t be needing medical attention anymore if I’d been treated better the first time, but we had a specific objective in mind and Ray and Fred didn’t want to cloud matters by flinging accusations around. Besides, I was still in the hospital and not present at the hearing.

  After everybody had his say, Ray stood to request that I be released on bond. Judge Tyson granted the request but imposed the condition that I stay at home except for visits to either my doctor or my lawyers.

  Not wanting to exult in front of the judge, the warden and the prosecutor, Ray and Fred kept as solemn as they could as they left the courtroom. Once they were out of sight, they bolted for a pay phone and called Barbara, who raced them to the hospital, anxious to tell me the good news. They arrived together, all smiles and good spirits, and as soon as I saw them, I nearly started crying. It had been nine months since I’d been taken into custody, and even though I could be thrown back into jail anytime the judge felt like it and I’d be under house arrest even if he didn’t, just the thought of being able to walk into my own home was overwhelming.

  Ray and Fred were ready for some heavy-duty celebrating and practically dragged me out of bed, but I wasn’t up for it. I guess they thought I’d been faking in order to try to get released, but the truth is, I really felt like shit and just wanted to go home.

  The euphoria of being able to step outside without shackles and to smell something other than sweat, sewage and prison food was sweet but short-lived. I wasn’t any closer to being out of the long-term woods, and within a day or two the desolation I’d been feeling, which I’d attributed solely to being in jail, began to reassert itself. Two impending hearings were still looming before me. One was on whether I’d actually violated my parole. The county hadn’t been in any hurry to get the VOP hearing going, because they had me in jail, and all that would happen if they prevailed in the hearing was that I would stay in jail. They could lose, too, and then I’d be out again, so as far as they were concerned, they were happy to postpone it forever. At least that was the situation while I was still being held. Now that I was out, at least partially, they would probably be stepping up the process of trying to get me back once the doctor pronounced me fit.

  The other impending hearing was about a new trial on the original charges stemming from the Ramada bust. Ray and Fred thought the most critical piece of strategy was to see to it that the trial took place before the VOP hearing. If it didn’t, and I lost the hearing, I’d go back to jail and the county would stall forever. Since I had a constitutional right to a speedy trial, my lawyers would howl in protest, but the prosecutor could claim that none of my rights were being violated, because, regardless of the merits of the case, I did violate my parole. Even if I was eventually exonerated of the Ramada incident, and never should have been in a position to need parole in the first place, the violation could still stand. The situation is somewhat akin to a prisoner who breaks out of jail, and while he’s on the lam, they discover he didn’t do the crime for which he was convicted. That still doesn’t excuse his breaking out. In my case, if we had the trial first and I was acquitted, Ray and Fred were fairly certain the parole violation matter would be dismissed. I’d already done ten months and had my health compromised, and the judge wasn’t likely to put me back.

  Now that I was out, the thought of going back was terrifying. I hung on Ray and Fred’s every word, searching for hidden meanings that didn’t exist, latching on to every casual phrase that might represent a glimmer of hope. I also started to suspect that I was being followed on my trips to the doctor, and I thought it a real possibility that someone might try to kill me. I was scared to go out alone, and to this day I’m not convinced it was just paranoia.

  I couldn’t sleep, had difficulty thinking straight and was getting angrier and angrier at nothing in particular. The only people close at hand to take it out on were Barbara and the kids, and they suffered more than when I was in jail. I think that, more than anything, I was completely exhausted and emptied of reserves. I was too mentally fatigued to fight my impulses, and it was easier to lash out than try to control myself. The worst part was that I knew exactly what was happening, could see my relationship with Barb deteriorating before my eyes, and I couldn’t seem to stop it. I was mean, nasty-tempered and impossible to talk to.

  I also began drinking heavily; it was the only way I could combat the enervating anxiety and fatigue and, if only for a few hours, get a break from the relentless tension that was the constant companion of every waking hour. Ray and Fred were the two worst possible friends to have in that situation, because neither of them saw heavy drinking as any kind of problem at all. In fact, it gave them a very creative idea.

  I was under a court order not to go anyplace other than the doctor’s or my lawyers’ offices. Ray and Fred decided that their offices included every bar in greater Fort Lauderdale frequented by attorneys, cops and courthouse personnel. After all, they reasoned, some of their most productive settlement and pretrial discussions took place in those venues, and it was critically important for their client to be present. For some reason, none of the cops or bailiffs who saw me in those bars ever caused much of an official fuss, although I could almost see steam rising out of their ears. Maybe they didn’t want to have to explain what they were doing there themselves so often. So the three of us drank ourselves into blithering idiots night after night, and I got even more belligerent, to preclude Barb from giving me any shit when I finally dragged myself home.

  Ray and Fred were intent on getting the trial scheduled before the VOP hearing, and prosecutor Billy D, as everyone referred to Dimitrouleas, was just as determined not to have a trial at all. Eventually Ray figured out his game, which was so sinister and clever you really had to admire it. If Billy D won the VOP hearing and got me back in to serve out the rest of the twenty years, he’d simply drop the charges stemming from the Ramada bust. That way I could never be formally exonerated, and we couldn’t go before a judge pleading that the original bust, and therefore the deal I’d accepted, was bogus. There would be no basis left on which to set aside my parole violation, and I would do the entire stretch.

  On the other hand, if we got the right to a trial and we won, Billy D knew he’d never get the VOP to stand up, and I’d be off the hook forever. Doubtless he was working just as hard on his side of the case as my attorneys were working on mine. Since we never ran into him in a bar, maybe he was working harder. Every time Billy D got a VOP hearing scheduled, Ray and Fred would find a reason to get it postponed. Every time we got a hearing scheduled on whether we could have a new trial, Billy D would do the same thing to us. It kept leapfrogging like that, and we kept partying, getting more outrageous with each passing week.

  Most days I would head down to their office, the one on their letterhead, where we’d have a few beers and talk about how their day in court had gone. It was one crazy story after another, and I didn’t believe most of them (I would later), but they were fun to listen to, especially with a few brews under my belt. Then Fred would say, “Let’s adjourn to the annex,” and we’d head to a bar with some other attorneys or whoever else was around. Among the regulars were three of Fred’s clients, Carl Coppola, Joey Cam and Tommy Harris. They were among the most notorious drug smugglers in the state and always h
ad several cases under way. Seeing me with them made the cops even angrier, which is probably why Fred and Ray kept bringing them along: They enjoyed it when a tableful of Fort Lauderdale’s finest would see us walking in. The cops would huddle closer, mumbling to one another, probably about what they’d like to do to us if they got us alone in a dark alley, but they were powerless to do anything at the moment.

  It didn’t stop there, though. There was more money in the drug trade than most people could even imagine, and the biggest problem wasn’t how to make it, which was easy, but how to spend and store it, which was surprisingly difficult. Tracking huge money transactions was one of the feds’ primary weapons in identifying and busting dealers, so it was a key goal of people in the trade to leave as few paper trails as possible. Cash was essentially untraceable and could be spent with no record, so staggering amounts of it tended to hover around smugglers like Carl and Joey, but not many of them were as fearless and contemptuous as they were.

  One night around Christmas when we were all in a bar together, including a bunch of secretaries and support staff Ray and Fred had brought from the office, a guy walked in selling gold chains out of a portable display case. Joey Cam took a look and determined that the goods were real, then pulled out a sixteen-thousand-dollar roll of hundred-dollar bills and bought the whole thing from the guy, including the case. He started passing the stuff out to the women from the office, then moved on to all the other females in the bar and kept going until it was all gone. This was in front of half a dozen Fort Lauderdale cops, two detectives and two assistant D.A.s. It made me nervous as hell, but a few drinks fixed that up pretty quick. (Cam was later murdered in Fort Lauderdale after a money dispute during which he kidnapped Carl, who is now doing fifty-five years in federal prison. The cops even suspected me of killing Joey, but they suspected me in anything that had to do with anybody I’d ever been in the same ZIP code with.)