Final Confession

by Brian P. Wallace

  The clerk then read the other three verdicts. Each one was sentenced to time, with sentence suspended, except for Angelo, who was given two years’ probation. When the last verdict was read, Judge Bowman stood up and said, “All right, I think we’re finished here.”

  The Kay Jewelers robbers walked out of the courtroom together.

  Phil later said, “I’d never seen cops so mad in my life, and believe me I have seen some pissed-off cops before.” The feds and the Boston detectives and the state police and the Lynn cops all congregated on the front steps of the courthouse as the four defendants left. “Hey, Phil, how much did that cost you?” one of the feds yelled. “That’s justice, guys,” he replied smoothly. “Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose.” Then he smiled at the reporters and said, “Sorry, there’s no story here for you guys.” One of the cops said to Phil, “Oh, there’s a story here, all right. It just might not be about you.”

  As Phil was getting into his car he spotted his old friend from Arlington, who looked as if he was ready to explode. “Hey, Sergeant Doherty,” Phil yelled. “Nice day, huh? But I hear rain is in the forecast. You’d better watch out.”

  “Fuck you and fuck your judge, Cresta,” Sergeant Doherty yelled.

  Phil drove off.

  THAT AFTERNOON Phil, Angelo, and Tony went back to McGrail’s to celebrate their court victory. Tony was stunned. He had packed a small bag in anticipation of being sent to jail that day. He had explained to his wife that he probably wouldn’t be coming home for a while, and had asked friends to look after his family until he returned. “It was the first time since I’d met him that I saw Tony speechless,” Phil remembered. “He didn’t have a clue.”

  They were in McGrail’s for about an hour when Phil turned to Tony and said, “I’m going to need twenty-five large by tonight. Can you bring it to me at the Fenway?” Now Tony was really speechless. “Twenty-five large, Phil, for what?” “You don’t think you walked out of that courtroom today because the judge liked your face, do you?” It took a few seconds for what Phil had said to sink in.

  “Honest to God, Phil?” Tony’s face went white. “You fixed it? No, come on, Phil, there’s no way.” “Oh, there’s a way.” Phil laughed. “It’s called m-o-n-e-y.” “Phil, even you can’t buy a judge,” Tony whispered, looking around to see if anyone might be listening. “Tony, everyone can be bought. It’s just that some have a higher price than others,” Phil responded. “But a judge!” Tony exclaimed. “Hey, a judge is only human. Judges need scratch too, don’t they?”

  Tony turned to Angelo and asked, “Did you know about this?” “No,” Angelo lied. Then Tony said, “But, Ange, you were gonna walk anyway, you have no sheet.” “Tony, we’re all in this together. We split everything three ways, right?” “Yeah, well, I guess. …” Then Tony whispered, “Hey, what about Reddy and McAleney, are they in on this?” “Absolutely not, and they’ll never find out about it, right?” Phil said emphatically, and then, “When can you get twenty-five for me, Tony?” “I’ll go to the bank right now,” Tony said, and he got up to leave. “No withdrawals, Tony. It’s too easy to trace. All we need is some eager young reporter finding out that we each withdrew twenty-five large on the day we beat the feds. You do have a box, don’t you?” “Sure, Phil, I have two boxes,” Tony replied. “Well, get going, then. And please … make sure you’re not followed.” Tony left McGrail’s, and Phil walked up Yawkey Way to the same pay phone he had used previously.

  He dialed and let the phone ring five or six times before the other person answered. “It’s Phil—” Cresta started, but he was cut off before he could say anything else.

  “I know who the fuck it is! What happened?”

  Phil, who wasn’t used to being talked to that way, kept his cool. “Whadda ya mean, what happened?” he asked. “Everything went fine.”

  The angry voice on the other end said, “I just talked to the judge, and there were only four defendants, what happened to the fifth one?”

  “He’s an asshole,” Phil said.

  The other man answered, “I don’t give two shits about him or his asshole. I do care, however, how this looks. And right now, it doesn’t look good. Now, what happened?”

  “That scumbag McAleney wouldn’t plead guilty, and there was no way I was going to tell him the fix was in. Not with his mouth. Half the city of Boston would’ve known after he had two drinks, so I left him out there to hang on his own,” Phil said.

  “Well, that was not the deal you came to me with. That was not the deal the judge bought into, right?”

  “Where does that leave us?” Phil asked.

  “It certainly leaves you off the hook, doesn’t it?” The angry man said sarcastically.

  “Well, where does that leave us?” Phil asked again.

  “It leaves us”—and he emphasized the word us—“with about twenty-five thousand dollars more in expenses,” the voice on the phone said.

  “A hundred grand? For crissake! Who are the crooks here?” Phil said.

  “Don’t fuck with us, Cresta. We are not the ones who fucked up here. You said all five of you would plead guilty and that didn’t happen, did it?”

  “No, it didn’t,” Phil said, now the sarcastic one.

  “Well, here’s what you do. Someone will come by tonight and you will give him one hundred thousand dollars in cash, and then you will get McAleney to change his plea from not guilty to guilty and you will have him in court in two days. Is that understood? This case was supposed to be over by now. We don’t need it dragging on until some wiseass reporter decides to investigate, now do we? Do you think you can handle the arrangements?”

  Phil hesitated and finally said, “Yeah, I can handle them.”

  The voice on the other end said, “Are there any other problems?”

  “Not that I can think of,” Phil replied.

  “Fine, good-bye.” The man hung up.

  Phil slammed down the phone and headed over to the Fenway Motor Inn.

  By the time Tony returned with his $25,000, Phil had already briefed Angelo on his conversation with “the bagman,” as he called him. He was just finishing when he heard Tony’s unmistakable knock on the door to room nine. “Don’t tell Tony nothing,” Phil admonished Angelo. “But, Phil, we should all split the extra twenty-five. Why should you pick it up?” Angelo said. “Because I made the deal and I fucked up, that’s why,” Phil replied as he let Tony in. Tony gave Phil the cash and said he had to get home, which made things easier for Phil.

  As soon as Tony pulled out of the driveway, Angelo and Phil got in Phil’s car and headed to Mattapan Square. Neither of them said a word until they got to Franklin Park. “This is really bothering you, isn’t it, Phil?” Angelo asked.

  “No, fuck the money. That’s not what’s bothering me. It’s Doherty,” Phil said.

  “What does Doherty have to do with any of this?”

  “He made Bowman this morning,” Phil said quietly. “And Doherty may be an asshole, but he’s not stupid.”

  “You’re talking about that cop from Arlington, right?” Angelo was now totally confused.

  “Did you hear what he said as I was getting in the car?” Phil asked, not looking at Angelo as they passed Franklin Field.

  “He said ‘Fuck you,’ didn’t he?”

  “That was half of it.”

  “And … ” Angelo waited.

  “And then he said ‘and fuck your judge.’ ” Phil turned to face Angelo.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Before I even knew you or Tony, I had a guy on my payroll who was in Governor Furcolo’s office. That guy got me out of a few situations. One of them—remember the DeMarco shooting?—had to do with Doherty, who’s hated me forever. After the DeMarco thing, he went to my parole officer and got me busted.”

  Phil parked his car in Mattapan Square. Neither of them made any move to get out. Phil shut off the ignition, faced Angelo, lit a cigarette, and continued. “Doherty thought I was going to have to serv
e the remaining two years on my original bit [sentence], and he was happy as a pig in shit that he’d finally busted me.”

  “How much time did you do?”

  “Three weeks.” Phil laughed.

  “Shit, Phil!” Angelo gasped. “How did you pull that off?”

  “I had to pay big-time,” Phil said, looking Angelo right in the eye.

  Phil could see that Angelo wasn’t getting it. “Ange, the guy I paid off, the guy in the governor’s office, was Bowman.”

  “Holy shit, Phil!”

  “Bowman was one of Furcolo’s top guys back then, before the governor made him a judge. His bagman was a guy named Baker, Nathan Baker.”

  “That’s the guy you called today?” Angelo asked, catching on.

  “Yeah, Baker is still the bagman. Only the price has changed.” Phil laughed.

  “What does any of this have to do with Doherty?” Angelo asked.

  “Good question. When I got out of jail, it was pouring out, so I drove over to Arlington and opened Doherty’s windows and his car was filled with a foot of water when he got off duty. He went absolutely berserk and ran right to my parole officer, who told him that it was out of his hands. He’d have to go to the governor’s office to find out how I got out.”

  “And Doherty met Bowman when he went to the governor’s office, right?”

  “He was there every day for a month, and Bowman would call me every day and tell me what he said. Bowman thought the guy was a little crazy.”

  “And today in court, Doherty saw the judge who let you off is the same guy who let you off before, right?”

  “I’m not sure Doherty ever actually found out that Bowman was the guy who was responsible for my walking before. But I think he knows now. And that worries me. Doherty is one tenacious bastard, and we don’t need him snooping around this case.”

  “What can we do about it?” Angelo asked.

  “We can whack him or we can wait and see what he does. Maybe I’m giving him too much credit, but I doubt it. Especially after what he yelled at me today. He knows something about this case smells. Let’s just hope for everyone’s sake he doesn’t become a Jimmy Olsen on us.” Phil laughed.

  “Well, Superman,” Angelo said, trying to extend the metaphor, “you’ll just have to put him on a kryptonite diet if he does.”

  “Kryptonite kills Superman, knucklehead, not Jimmy Olsen.”

  They both were laughing as they walked into the Brown Jug, which, as always, was crowded.

  Phil froze, though, when he saw who was sitting at the bar with McAleney. It was none other than Ben Tilley. Angelo could sense trouble, so he said to Phil, “You get McAleney, I’ll take care of Tilley.” Angelo headed over to Tilley and started talking to him as if he were a long-lost friend.

  Phil motioned to McAleney, who went outside with him.

  “He was shaking when I motioned him over to my car,” Phil recalled. “I had no use for that piece of shit, and I just wanted him out of my life. But first, I told him, he’d better call his lawyer and change his plea from not guilty to guilty.”

  “Phil, I’ve never pleaded guilty in my life,” McAleney said.

  “Yeah, and a lot of good it’s done you, you’ve spent half your life behind bars,” Phil said. “For once, McAleney, do the smart thing,” Phil insisted. “Look at it this way: you have two options. Number one, you call your attorney when I leave and tell him you want to change your plea. Or number two, you never make it to court for your trial. Now which is it gonna be?”

  “I can’t do any more time, Phil,” he pleaded.

  “You won’t do any time if you follow my instructions. That is all I can say, but you know my word on the street is good, right?”

  “Absolutely, Phil, everyone knows that.” He smiled.

  “I don’t need you to ball-suck me. I just need you to do what I tell you. Understood?” Phil smiled as well.

  “Sure, Phil, whatever you say.”

  On May 23, 1968, Edward McAleney was standing before Judge Victor Bowman, the presiding justice of the Essex County Superior Court. By the time McAleney’s docket number was called, the only people in the courtroom were the judge, a probation officer, the clerk, one police officer—and a small guy sitting in the last row taking notes. He was the man Phil Cresta referred to as “the bagman.” There were no feds, no staties, no Boston policemen, and no sergeants from Arlington as there had been before. They didn’t care about an alcoholic, down-and-out ex-con who was in the twilight of a mediocre career. Their big fish, Phil Cresta, had again gotten away, forty-eight hours earlier.

  McAleney was represented by Attorney Julius Sobil. After agreeing to waive the readings of the two indictments, McAleney was given a suspended sentence by Judge Brogna and he walked out of the court a free man. Ten hours later he walked into McGrail’s. “Look who’s here,” Angelo said as he spotted McAleney. McAleney went to where Phil and Angelo were sitting and extended his hand to Phil. “What’s this?” Phil asked. “I just want to say thanks and to apologize for everything. I guess I screwed up,” McAleney said slowly. Phil looked at Angelo, who just shrugged, and then extended his hand to McAleney. “No hard feelings,” Phil said. “Let’s just put the whole thing behind us, all right?” “Thanks, Phil. You’re a square guy, like I always heard. Can I buy you a drink?” he asked. Phil nodded, and McAleney went off to get Phil and Angelo a couple of beers.

  “Whadda ya doing? I thought you couldn’t stand the guy,” Angelo said to Phil.

  “I just want to plant a seed.” Phil smiled.

  When McAleney returned, the conversation got back to Tilley. “What kind of car does Tilley drive?” Phil asked. McAleney asked Phil why he wanted to know. “I just thought I saw him riding by Fenway, but I wasn’t sure it was him.” Phil smiled again. “A green Cadillac,” McAleney told him. “Naw, I guess it wasn’t him,” Phil said, and laughed.

  Phil asked McAleney how everything went in court, as if he didn’t know. “Unbelievable,” McAleney said. “My lawyer was great, he got me off with a suspended sentence. I was sure Brogna was going to send me away, but my lawyer worked miracles.” Phil just shook his head. “How much did he charge you?” Angelo asked. “Ten grand, but it was worth it to get off with a suspended.” McAleney smiled.

  When McAleney went to the bathroom, Phil said to Angelo, “That poor prick is really stupid. He could’ve had Harpo Marx for his lawyer and he would’ve gotten the same sentence, but he’ll never know it. What a fool.” Phil and Angelo left before McAleney returned.

  “I never saw him again after that night at McGrail’s. It’s a shame what booze can do to people. He was a squared-away guy in the joint, but the booze soaked his brain, and he let people like Tilley and that lawyer take advantage of him. It’s too bad.”

  Doing business with McAleney, who shot off his mouth to Tilley, was a costly mistake for Phil as well. He’d had to pay “the bagman” $50,000 of his own money and he lost $25,000 worth of valuable equipment in the basement. And even more of a loss, partly due to Bowman’s letting off the Kay Jewelers robbers, came five years later. In 1971 there was a major investigation of superior court judges and bail bondsmen. Bowman and Baker were both investigated and consequently these men who had helped Phil over the years became useless to him. Phil, still in hiding at the time, said of his payees, “I read all about Baker and Bowman and I actually felt bad for them. They were in business for a long time. Shit, they were a better team than the Red Sox. I always wondered what Sergeant Doherty felt like when he watched the hearings.”

  Phil never found out. He neither saw nor heard from Doherty again, which was fine with him.

  17

  Brink’s Déjà-vu

  AMONTH AFTER THE LAST of the Kay Jewelers thieves was given his suspended sentence, Phil Cresta began thinking about a bigger heist. When, in June 1968, the Cresta team got news of this potential new job, they decided they needed help from one of the best setup and escape men in the business. Tony and Angelo suggested Red
Kelley.

  Six years earlier, in mid-August 1962, Jack “Red” Kelley had pulled off the largest mail robbery in Massachusetts history. Known as the Great Plymouth Mail Robbery, it made headlines from coast to coast. The banks on Cape Cod were, at the time, transporting their excess cash to the Federal Reserve Bank in Boston—by way of an ordinary mail truck. When they started, they used state police to escort the money, but by July someone decided they weren’t needed. Instead, two postal employees would ride the truck: one a driver, the other a guard. Both would carry .38s. Thanks to that poor decision, the Plymouth mail robbers netted $1,551,277 in a daylight holdup. They were never prosecuted, and none of the money was recovered. Kelley’s indictment didn’t come up until 1967, the year before Cresta paid off “the bagman” for the Kay Jewelers job. And, along with that of other Plymouth mail robbery suspects, including Patricia Diaferio’s, Kelley’s indictment was filed away without ever going to trial, owing to “insufficient evidence.” These events were still fresh in Cresta’s mind in June 1968.

  “Just be careful what you tell him,” Phil told Angelo before that first meeting with Kelley, which was set up by an intermediary. “Anyone who’s dealt with Kelley in the past has wound up either in the can or dead—and not from old age.”

  Phil was not stretching the truth. Within two and a half years of the Plymouth caper, five men with direct knowledge of the Plymouth robbery were found murdered around Boston.

  Robert Rasmussen, of Dedham, a well-known wise guy, was found in Wilmington on January 21, 1965, with a single .38 bullet in the back of his head. Rasmussen’s body was dressed only in underwear, black socks, and a necktie. Several days earlier, another local wise guy fresh out of Walpole, a Jackie Murray, of the South End, was found dead on Tinnean Beach. On May 4, 1964, Francis “Frankie” Benjamin, of Dorchester, was found fully clothed, but without a head, by Boston Police. His head was never found. Leo Lowry, of South Boston, also an ex-con recently released from Walpole, was shot to death and his throat slit in Pembroke on September 3, 1964. And on December 28, 1964, George E. Ash, of Brookline, was shot and stabbed to death in the South End of Boston. None of these murders were prosecuted.