Ghost

by Michael R. McGowan

  I’d never met Robert “Bobby Russo” Carrozza Jr. before in my life, but knew the reputation of his father who had been indicted in 1990 for murdering an underboss of the Patriarca crime family. In fact, Carrozza Sr. had been Merlino’s cellmate when they both were in a federal prison in Pennsylvania. Small world.

  Minutes after Carrozza Jr. sat down, the phone rang. It was the Case Agent, who had been listening from another location.

  He asked, “Do you know who you’re dealing with?”

  I started laughing. “Yeah, I know. Thanks.” And hung up.

  Bobby Carrozza Jr. had been sent by Luisi to do his dirty work. He spent the next couple hours talking about himself, and asking me questions about my background and my business. In his own way, Bobby was vetting me, because he knew that as far as Luisi was concerned, he was expendable. Among the things he said was that he was a stickler for punctuality, a trait he had learned from his imprisoned father.

  “If you were late to a meeting,” he said, “he’d either, number one, break your jaw, or number two, you were left out and he didn’t care.”

  Carrozza Jr. liked to talk, which was fine with me. I would pump him for information on his coconspirators and use him to tie the cocaine conspiracy together:

  ME: “The Philadelphia side talked to the Boston side … and everything was…”

  CARROZZA JR.: “Copacetic.”

  ME: “If I can make everyone some money … and if I can make everybody happy … and no one’s pissed off at one another … why not take a shot?”

  CARROZZA JR.: “Right … as long as everything’s all right.…”

  ME: “I don’t know if you realize … they talked to Joey that day.…”

  CARROZZA JR.: “They did … I know that.…”

  ME: “The guy … he had needed his okay on it…”

  CARROZZA JR.: “Right … the thing … would be a very good grade.…”

  ME: “If Joey Merlino and Bobby Luisi are talking on the phone … and say it’s going to happen … I ain’t about to fuck it up … you know what I mean?”

  CARROZZA JR.: “Absolutely.…”

  Finally, he popped open the briefcase he was carrying and handed me two bricks of cocaine wrapped in plastic. The plastic on most of the bricks of dope I’d seen were stamped with some kind of identifying marker. On one he handed me, I saw 215, which I recognized as the area code for Philadelphia. That indicated that the two bricks had come from mobsters in Philadelphia.

  I said to Bobby, “Tell Joey, thank you,” referring to Joey Merlino.

  One thing I’d learned about doing dope deals was that you never keep the money and dope in the same place. Keeping them separate reduced the risk of being killed or ripped off.

  So I locked the bricks in my desk, and then looked up at Bobby and said, “Okay, I owe you fifty grand. It’s down at the hotel.”

  We walked together a few blocks to the Long Wharf Hotel. Waiting there was a huge Rhode Island cop and former Golden Gloves boxer who worked with the FBI. He had a face that looked like it had been pushed through a meat grinder.

  I pointed at him and said, “That’s my cousin. He’s got your money.”

  “Hey, Irish Mike,” Bobby Carrozza Jr. responded, “you know some serious people, too.”

  The entire transaction was recorded on videotape. The Massachusetts State Police lab consequently tested the bricks and found them to weigh 2,093.7 grams (a little more than 2 kilograms) and contain 42 percent cocaine. Like true mobsters, they’d tried to increase their profit margin by giving us mediocre cocaine that had been “stepped on,” or diluted with a cutting agent. They thought they had gotten one over on us, but in reality, as long as we had at least 1 percent purity, they were all legally cooked. And the joke was on them, not us.

  In my opinion, we had enough on Joey Merlino, Bobby Carrozza Jr., Bobby Luisi, and another Luisi associate named Shawn Vetere to indict them. But when we presented the case to the Assistant United States Attorney, he started poking holes and wanted more evidence.

  In the world of federal law enforcement, FBI Agents investigate crimes on the street. Federal prosecutors review and prosecute cases from inside a safe office. The two worlds and viewpoints knock heads all the time.

  “Luisi wasn’t there,” the Assistant U.S. Attorney complained.

  “I know that. But we’ve got phone transcripts of him discussing the deal with Merlino. Besides, Carrozza acknowledged that he was sent by Luisi.”

  “Also, you never used the word cocaine.”

  “You people don’t understand how real life works,” I responded as I felt my head getting ready to explode. “You never use that word when discussing drug deals. It’s always bricks or anything other than cocaine.”

  “We need more evidence against Luisi,” the AUSA concluded.

  “I already told you that he and I discussed the dope deal in the stairwell.”

  “Yeah, but we can’t hear it on the tape,” countered the AUSA.

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “No, I’m just saying that we need better evidence. We need to put the dope in Luisi’s hand.”

  “Again, you don’t understand how real life works,” I said. “That’s never going to happen. LCN guys like Merlino and Luisi never touch the dope.”

  The AUSA didn’t know how the street worked.

  “There’s a way to do it,” I added.

  “How?”

  “Luisi won’t handle the dope, but he will touch the money.”

  “Okay. Let’s get that on tape.”

  I contacted Carrozza and said, “Tell Bobby I need another present.”

  A week or so later, I was sitting at home on Memorial Day weekend when the phone rang. It was the Case Agent telling me that the SAC wanted to see us immediately. I knew this couldn’t be good.

  As I drove to the office, I asked myself, What did I do wrong? Did someone see me using my FBI car to drive the kids to school? It was like going to the principal’s office when you were a kid.

  Upon reaching the SAC’s office, the Case Agent and I, asked as matter-of-factly as we could, “What’s up, Boss?”

  He answered, “You’re done, Mike.”

  “What do you mean, I’m done?” I asked, thinking: Is this the fucking stolen heroin case all over again?

  “You’re done with the case. Pull your shit. It’s over,” the Boss said.

  I asked for an explanation. The SAC, who was old-school and very well respected in the office, eventually offered one: “We have information that someone has tipped off the Mob that you’re an FBI Agent.”

  “What information?” I asked. “What did you hear?”

  “I can’t tell you,” he answered, “other than to say that we were told they know that you’re an FBI Agent.”

  Quickly, I marshaled my arguments to be allowed to continue. After pointing out that we were close to wrapping up the case, I suggested, “How about I don’t meet the wise guys in the North End anymore where I could get bundled (slang for kidnapped.) Instead I’ll only meet them outside in public.”

  The Boss wasn’t buying it, but gave us the long holiday weekend to come up with a plan. Meanwhile, Luisi paged me nonstop. In the past, if I didn’t respond within ten minutes, he’d lose his shit. Now days went by as we tried to convince my FBI Big Boss to let me continue with the case.

  Much later and after the UCO was over, I found out that two days before Previte had introduced me to Luisi in January 1999, a law enforcement officer from a different agency had knocked on Luisi’s door, told him he knew Luisi was involved in drug trafficking, and asked him to become an informant for his organization. Luisi turned him down.

  As the law enforcement officer left, he said, “Bobby, not for nothing, but be careful who your new friends are.”

  For whatever reason, this asshole had decided to burn the FBI, which was completely unprofessional and exceptionally dangerous. We knew that he knew about the FBI undercover operation, because he was present dur
ing a coordination meeting held in the USAO. Every local, state, and federal agency wanted a shot at Luisi, and he was pissed that he had been instructed to stand down while the FBI took a shot.

  This disclosure came from another member of law enforcement who was so bothered by what had occurred that he eventually came forward and told the FBI. Had we known about the earlier statement to Luisi, I would have never been sent in undercover. For four months, I’d been rubbing shoulders with Luisi and his wise guys without any hint of what had been said.

  By Memorial Day 1999, I was determined to finish the case despite the possible danger and confident that there was a safe way to wrap it up. On Tuesday morning, the Case Agent and I convinced the SAC to let me arrange one more public meeting with Luisi. If I picked up on any suspicion from him, I promised to quit.

  I approached a young man named Carl who had just joined the Organized Crime Squad, and said, “Carl, I want you to make a call to a mobster.” Again, in the small world department, I had been trained in Philadelphia by Carl’s uncle. If Carl turned out to be half the Agent his uncle was, he’d become a superstar.

  His eyes bulging out of his head, Carl asked, “What did you just say?”

  “Here’s the story,” I started. “You’re my cousin. I want you to tell this guy that over Memorial Weekend I went to the Cape, got fucked up, and was arrested on a DWI. Tell him I’ve spent the last three days in the can.”

  While Carl made the call to Luisi, we contacted a local police department on Cape Cod, and told them what we wanted them to say about the arrest of “Irish Mike,” and asked them to prepare a fictitious DWI report. They were great and helped immediately.

  Then I made arrangements to meet Bobby Luisi on Hanover Street. I figured he couldn’t kill me in that busy area in broad daylight, but he sure looked like he wanted to when he saw me. In the LCN world, an underling, especially an associate, never disrespects a Capo. Luisi immediately started cussing me out. When we stopped at a streetlight, he slapped me hard in the face. I fought the impulse to punch him back by biting my lip until it bled, telling myself that if I did, the case was over. Five years earlier, I would have jumped his shit in the middle of the block.

  Luisi said, “You dumb fuck.… When are you going to court on the DWI?”

  “Next month,” I answered. “Can you believe those motherfucking cops? What’s their fucking problem? A guy can’t even have a couple drinks on the holiday?”

  He snarled, “Let me see your papers.”

  Thank God for being prepared. I reached into my jacket pocket and handed him the fake DWI report. Turned out, Luisi wasn’t upset that I’d been arrested. He was pissed that I had missed three days of making money for him.

  “How are you going to make this up to me?” he asked.

  I used this opening to mention the offer I had made to Carrozza to buy another kilogram of coke. A week later, on June 3, another Luisi associate named Tommy Wilson showed up at my office and handed me a third brick of cocaine on video.

  The AUSA had told me that he wanted Luisi on tape handling either money or dope. So as Tommy sat waiting to be paid, I said, “Tommy, do me a favor. Go back and tell Bobby that I’m not paying anyone but him.”

  “No,” Tommy pleaded. “Bobby told me to bring back the twenty-four grand.”

  “No disrespect, Tommy, but I’ve got my reasons. Tell Bobby what I said.”

  Twenty minutes later, Bobby Luisi called and sounded pissed. “You motherfucker.…” he started. “What the fuck is going on now?”

  I said, “Bobby, I’ll explain to you in person.”

  He agreed to meet me in front of the Custom’s House on State Street in an hour. With FBI video cameras rolling, I packed $24,000 cash in a FedEx box and set out for the financial district. I got there early and coordinated with the guys in the surveillance van so I knew exactly where they were going to be stationed across the street. Twenty minutes later, Luisi came bounding down the sidewalk looking annoyed.

  As we stood talking, a teenage girl passed in front of us, and Luisi made a lewd comment about her behind.

  I hated stuff like that. He was staring at the box under my arm, waiting for me to hand it over, and I was bleeding him dry just like Chris Brady had taught me.

  Just as I was about to hand him the money, a delivery truck passed, blocking the line of sight from the surveillance van. Cognizant of the distraction in my peripheral vision, I pulled the box back and waited. Soon as the truck passed, I handed the cash to Luisi and he was cooked.

  I was sick of dealing with Luisi and his crew, and mentally exhausted. When I met with the AUSA in mid-June, he said, “We have Luisi for dealing three kilos, but if you can get him to talk about more, it’s a bigger charge.” Federal drug charges and sentencing are dictated by the amount of weight of the drugs involved, and the AUSA wanted us with more than five kilograms, which mandated a minimum sentence of at least ten years. Fine.

  A week later, I called Bobby Carrozza and Tommy Wilson to my office and discussed buying two or four more kilograms of cocaine at a cost of $48,000 to $96,000. The tape recorder that was running captured Carrozza implicating Luisi, Shawn Vetere, and Joey Merlino, his coconspirators, over and over again.

  Carrozza said, “I can tell the other guy, Shawn. I’ll see him after. He wants the results of this conversation. They like this thing here, and they want it to work. In conversations with the guys down south, everybody’s happy with this … the guy Joey … everybody’s real happy with this, and they’re happy with you. Everybody. Bobby’s happy. That’s the way we want it to be … a system, a pattern. I’m good at that. Shawn put me in this position, because I’m a good talker. I know what I’m doing. Shawn says we’re off to the races.”

  A couple days later, Luisi summoned me to the Caffé Vittoria to discuss the purchase of the four additional bricks of coke. As I entered a dark entryway, I heard someone bolt the door. The sound of a door locking behind you has got to be the worst thing an undercover can hear. It’s almost always the prelude to a violent act, or the law enforcement equivalent of a shotgun being racked.

  It had to have been done by either Paulie Pepicelli or Shawn Vetere who had entered behind me. I assumed one or both of them were armed. This was not the way I wanted the case to end.

  Luisi stared at me with dead eyes from two feet away, his face unreadable. When he turned to scan the traffic outside on Hanover Street, I noticed a birthmark near his left eye for the first time. I heard an espresso machine hissing from an adjoining room and a chair scrape against the floor.

  We were four big men squeezed in a dark hallway. Cold sweat started to form on my chest near where the microphone was taped. I had to fight back the urge to piss my pants. I knew that if they searched me, I was done. I had a feeling I was fucked anyway.

  In milliseconds my mind raced through several escape options. I could try bull-rushing Luisi, but that would be like trying to knock over a small sequoia tree. I could go for Pepicelli behind me and try to grab his gun, but with Vetere standing next to him, I’d probably get pummeled to the ground first.

  Luisi whispered in a gravelly voice, “Something ain’t right, Mike.… I don’t like what I’m seeing.”

  “What’s up, Bobby?” I whispered back, trying to keep my knees from knocking together. “What’s the matter? We good?”

  “Come inside,” he whispered, motioning me forward with his hand. “Get away from the door. Come in the backroom.”

  I didn’t like the way this was going. I said, “Bobby, let’s talk here. Let’s figure out where this is going. Is there a problem?”

  “Yeah, we got a problem,” he responded in a flat tone of voice. “Come back inside. We need to go down to the basement.”

  The basement was one place I definitely didn’t want to go. I scolded myself for not heeding the SAC’s warning. I figured Luisi had discovered that I was really an FBI Agent, and once we reached the basement he was going to put a bullet in my head.

  My legs shook
as the four of us shuffled to the backroom and down a flight of steps to a dark room I’d never been in before. Luisi indicated a chair at a round table. I sat. Then he settled his big body in the wooden chair to my left. Vetere and Pepicelli sat across from us. Pepicelli sneered at me as if to say, “What the fuck you lookin’ at?”

  I turned away and heard music coming from a jukebox in the corner. It was playing “My Way” by Frank Sinatra.

  I couldn’t help myself. I started to chuckle.

  Luisi leaned into me and asked, “What is it, Mike? What’s so funny?”

  “That was my father’s favorite song. It’s the only one I ever heard him sing.”

  Don’t ask me why, but I took it as a sign from my father that everything was going to be okay, and I was going to walk out of there in one piece. It was as if my father was watching my back twenty-five years later.

  I relaxed and Luisi started talking about the upcoming dope deal. I quickly realized that he hadn’t summoned me to the basement to whack me, but to discuss terms and future business, and to avoid law enforcement scrutiny, as he believed we were all under surveillance from Hanover Street. We finalized another deal for four more kilograms of cocaine.

  Now the AUSA had all the evidence he needed, and I was counting the hours until the case was over. My job now was to make sure Luisi, Carrozza, Vetere, Pepicelli, and Wilson stayed in town so they could be arrested at the same time. The arrest was set for Monday, June 27.

  I called Luisi and said, “I got my hands on some more Rolexes. If you’re around on Monday, I’ll give them to you. If you’re not in town, I’m going to have to sell them to someone else, because I need the money.”

  “I’ll be here,” Luisi said.

  Six AM Monday, FBI Agents spread out into Philadelphia, Boston, and four other locations and arrested Merlino, Luisi, and nine other mobsters.

  I was sitting in my Irish International office while the arrests took place. Shortly after six, my phone rang. Instinctively, I reached for my FBI phone. Then I realized it wasn’t the one that was ringing. Instead it was the “bad guy” phone I had reserved for Mob business.

  I picked it up and recognized one of the bad guy’s voices. He said frantically, “Mike, get the fuck out of there. The FBI is coming!”