When the official memo appeared on my desk, I laughed so hard that I almost pissed my pants. Continuing the sophomoric nonsense, the Criminal ASAC, who was a good guy and a practical joker himself, initialed the document and passed it on to the SAC for approval.
Days later, I opened my office mail and saw the memo with the SAC’s signature on it. Was he fucking with us? Was he goofing back at us because we had goofed on him? I found that hard to believe, and think he simply signed it after seeing the ASAC’s signature. But I never found out for sure. Bottom line, I had (and still have) official FBI approval for a physical makeover to include a bikini wax, a face-lift, and liposuction.
You can’t make this shit up!
In late 2000, after spending nearly nine months with Nardolillo and his disgusting smokes, it was time to ramp up the game. Guglielmetti still remained in the background, despite the fact that Nardolillo floated his name all the time.
A couple of weeks later, I walked into Centerfolds with a six-foot-two, 350-pound Cuban friend and fellow FBI UCA who I introduced as a dope dealer named Manny. The purpose of this: I wanted Nardolillo to know, so that it would get back to Guglielmetti, that I occasionally dabbled in the dope game to make a buck, and usually with my friend Manny, who was a big-time supplier. I also made it clear that I routinely cleaned Manny’s drug profits through my business.
It didn’t take long for the LCN to respond. In April 2001, Nardolillo offered to provide an LCN security detail consisting of him and four of his associates to guard seventeen kilos of Manny’s cocaine that was purportedly passing through Rhode Island. In legal terms, providing security to illegal narcotics was almost the same as possessing and distributing cocaine.
The dope dealers were really FBI UCAs and the cocaine had been seized by the FBI in other cases. The security detail lasted twelve hours and was carefully staged. After haggling with Nardolillo over money with audio and video equipment running, I paid him for his services. Our hope was that he would report the easy deal to Guglielmetti. If he did, Guglielmetti didn’t bite.
After a year and a half of hanging with Bobby and paying for protection to operate under Guglielmetti’s name, it was time to flush Guglielmetti out and push for a direct meeting. Again, all of this was carefully strategized and planned.
Shortly after the first cocaine protection detail, I told Bobby that I was interested in investing in a strip club in Tampa, Florida. The problem was that some Mob guy in Tampa was giving me a hard time and demanding a cut. I asked Bobby if Guglielmetti could help.
This time Guglielmetti bit, and agreed that for a piece of the action in my new club, he would represent me in Tampa. What he didn’t know was that the Tampa mobster I had accused of threatening me was really another FBI undercover. We knew that if Guglielmetti checked with real mobsters in Tampa, we were screwed. But I’d learned that most mobsters were lazy. We chose Tampa specifically because the current Mob hierarchy was in tatters.
The Trafficante family, which included Santo Trafficante senior and junior, and Vincent LoScalzo, had controlled the Tampa Mafia since the 1940s. Now, after the deaths of both Trafficantes and the arrest of LoScalzo in 1997, some individual mobsters were involved in small-scale criminal activities, but most were either in prison or had moved into legitimate businesses.
Bobby arranged a meeting between him, Matty Guglielmetti, the Tampa “mobster,” and me in early 2001. I arrived there two days early to meet with the undercover who was acting as the Tampa bad guy. One overcast very hot and humid day, the two of us, who were good friends, decided to sit by a lake and catch some sun.
As soon as I eased back in the lounge chair, I fell asleep. I was wearing sunglasses, but hadn’t put on suntan lotion. When I awoke an hour later, I was as red as a lobster, except for a band of pale skin around my eyes. The burn was so bad I had trouble walking. A day later, the dead skin started to peel, and the Tampa undercover started referring to me as “Scales.” He still does.
By the time the Providence mobsters arrived two days later, I looked ridiculous and felt like shit—not the way I wanted to present myself to Guglielmetti for the first time. If he bit on the gamble and liked me, I’d be well positioned to saddle up next to him and make the case. If I failed to convince him I was Mike Jameson, the operation was over and my life could be in danger.
The night before the meeting, Nardolillo took me up to his hotel room to coach me on Mob etiquette. The body recorder I wore captured our conversation.
NARDOLILLO: “… he [Guglielmetti] may say okay, and they may work out what they [Guglielmetti and the Tampa mobster] gotta work out. ’Cause he [Guglielmetti] will know … and they will know how to talk to each other. Even I don’t know all that.”
ME: “My fucking head’s spinning, Bobby.”
NARDOLILLO: “Even I don’t know all this.”
ME: “That’s between those two.”
NARDOLILLO: “There’s things that I don’t even know. Because there’s things I can’t say to him. Do you understand? If he’s real [a made man] … I can’t. There’s things I can’t say to him.”
ME: “No, he’s real. He’s real. I’m telling you. I think that’s what you’ll find out.”
NARDOLILLO: “I’ve seen real cops that are real, too.”
ME: “He’s gotta be good then.”
NARDOLILLO: “How about the ones right inside?”
ME: “Inside where?”
NARDOLILLO: “Your organization. Why? You don’t think there’s none in it? Sure there is.”
ME: “There’s cops inside your place?”
NARDOLILLO: “Not our place. We know there’s none in ours, ’cause we know everybody in our circle. But there’s other circles they get in. Look at fuckin’ Joe Pistone … what he did.”
ME: “Who’s that?”
NARDOLILLO: “What he did to those guys in fuckin’ New York. They got a million-dollar bounty on his head to kill him. He’s a fuckin’ federal agent. He went in.”
ME: “Was that a movie?”
NARDOLILLO: “It’s a true story.”
ME: “I didn’t know that.”
NARDOLILLO: “That’s a true story. They are real people. That’s a true story.”
ME: “I didn’t know that. I thought that was Hollywood.”
NARDOLILLO: “No, no, no. That’s true.”
ME: “He got in with those guys?”
NARDOLILLO: “Oh, yeah.”
ME: “And they treated him like one of their own?”
NARDOLILLO: “Yeah.”
ME: “And nothing happened to him?”
NARDOLILLO: “Well, they got him out, before something happened. He testified, and then they moved him. Changed his name, witness protection, the whole thing.”
ME: “What would they have done if they found out?”
NARDOLILLO: “Killed him.”
ME: “Who was he?”
NARDOLILLO: “He’s fuckin’ … I mean, there’s a million-dollar bounty on his head.”
ME: “I saw that on HBO one night. I didn’t know it was a real story.”
NARDOLILLO: “Oh, yeah. It’s a true fuckin’ story.”
ME: “How could that happen?”
NARDOLILLO: “He portrayed himself on the street … just like a guy. All you need is one guy.”
Nardolillo was a mobster, but he wasn’t a made man. He was explaining to me that made men speak and act differently.
I obviously knew Joe Pistone, but played dumb. Ten years earlier had I been with a Mob associate who brought up the subject of an FBI Agent working undercover, I probably would have panicked. Nardolillo’s admission that the Mob would kill the real-life Donnie Brasco if they ever got their hands on him, was later played in court to juries numerous times to demonstrate the violent mind-set of the LCN and their fear of infiltration.
The meeting between Guglielmetti, the FBI mobster who called himself John, and me was held at Castaways Restaurant inches from the Tampa Bay, the next afternoon. John played his rol
e brilliantly. Not only did he manage to convince Guglielmetti he was a real mobster, but he did this in part by challenging Guglielmetti as only a real Mob guy would do.
Guglielmetti responded strongly. He told John, “I’m not gonna just lay down, because you showed up and said this is your area.… We have an interest in this club.…”
At the end of the meeting Guglielmetti was recorded describing his impression of John to Bobby and me this way: “He seems to be okay.… He seems to be around (organized crime) people.… He apologized if he stepped into anything.… He’s a kid who’s on the street. Goes in and grabs it; it’s a feather in his cap.”
Turning to me, Guglielmetti said: “I like you, you’re all right. You handled yourself well considering that you were put in a fuckin’ situation you knew nothing about.…” He also said to me, “You’re with us.… No question.”
That was music to my ears, and meant our gamble had paid off. Now eighteen months into the case, I had direct access to Guglielmetti and could start to nurture a relationship. Back in Rhode Island, I made sure I saw him on a daily basis.
Matty Guglielmetti, I learned, wasn’t into drinking or chasing women. We’d often meet for dinner, where I’d play the part of a savvy businessman, who knew how to make money and could keep his mouth shut. Matty was cautious at first, but after months of conversations started to take me into his confidence and explain how the Mob did business through legitimate and quasi-legitimate businesses aided by a complex and nefarious web of relationships between mobsters, union officials, and politicians. One of Guglielmetti’s sources of income was from his position as a shop steward for Laborers’ International Union of North America (LIUNA) Local 271, which we knew was controlled by the Mob.
Since I was Mike Jameson, a shrewd businessman always looking for financial opportunity, Matty Guglielmetti and his associates pitched me business prospects all the time. At one point, Guglielmetti suggested that I invest in an adult entertainment club run by one of his associates. He arranged a personal tour. Ten AM on a Tuesday morning, I entered the establishment assuming that that there would be little sex activity taking place at that early hour.
The proud owner met me outside, buzzed me through two security doors, and started to escort me through rows of porno movies, dildos, and other sex devices, speaking the whole time about the financial benefits of operating an adult sex shop. While my body recording was running, I passed a private room and made eye contact with the customer inside.
“Hey. How’s it going?” I asked.
What my body recorder didn’t capture, but has been seared into my brain since was the sight of the man inside. He was a good-looking gentleman of around forty, average build with a full head of hair, completely naked except for the pair of leather chaps and a ball gag in his mouth. Was he a sex worker getting ready for his shift, or a customer waiting to be abused? I didn’t ask.
All I know is that as I exited the shop, I muttered one word, which was captured by the body recorder—“Wow.”
Mike Jameson took a pass on that investment opportunity.
A month later in August 2001, I met with Nardolillo to propose a second cocaine protection detail, in the hope that Guglielmetti would take the lead. My dope dealer friend Manny returned to Rhode Island with eleven kilos of coke to guard, and the second staged scenario worked as perfectly as the first one—all captured on tape. We now had enough evidence to file serious criminal charges against six of Matty’s associates, but not the ringleader and prize catch himself. But we were getting close.
13
OPERATION DOUBLE SESSIONS—PART TWO
September 11, 2001, I was sitting in the back of a classroom at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, waiting my turn to teach an undercover class to new FBI UCAs when a friend entered and said a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center in New York City. I remember feeling bad for the pilots and wondering how they could have made such a horrible mistake on such a clear, beautiful day.
When the same friend returned a short time later to tell me that a second plane had hit the Trade Center, I realized immediately that our country was under attack, and we were headed for war. I rushed back to Boston, where two of the suicide planes had left from on that fateful day.
Like most Americans, I was shocked and horrified by the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon. As an FBI Agent responsible for protecting our country, I immediately shifted my focus from hanging out with mobsters to chasing down leads and hunting for other possible terrorists. Frightened citizens were calling our FBI office day and night with tips, and we investigated all of them—three suspicious Middle Eastern men living in an apartment outside of Boston, who turned out to be students, a relative of Osama Bin Laden who resided in an exclusive apartment tower and might have information, a strange van parked near a federal building.
Like all other Agents, I was working sixteen-hour shifts investigating the terrorists and trying to prevent future attacks. As a result, all my other responsibilities fell by the wayside. They included coaching football, family time, and hanging with Guglielmetti. I had to be smart. I couldn’t just go radio silent on him without raising suspicion. So I made sure to call him and leave messages when I knew he would not be there to pick up, explaining that I was away from Rhode Island on a business trip.
But I couldn’t keep that up forever. So after six weeks of nonstop 9/11 duty, I convinced my superiors to let me cover the midnight antiterrorism shift, grab a few hours of sleep, and spend some time in my undercover role with Guglielmetti. If that meant working eighteen hours a day, so be it.
They agreed, and I picked up with Guglielmetti where we left off. Within weeks, he agreed to become a silent partner in my company Hemphill Construction and I gave him a set of keys to our Rhode Island office. In order to keep up the impression to Guglielmetti and others that we were legitimate, Hemphill Construction started bidding on contracts. Using FBI approved and vetted subcontractors, we actually won an asbestos abatement removal project. It marked the first time in history that the FBI actually completed a legitimate construction project, and went a long way in establishing the company’s presence in Rhode Island.
Guglielmetti, who seemed to be on friendly terms with every state official in Rhode Island, introduced me to numerous union and public officials, including Arthur Coia Jr.—the former general national president of LIUNA—who later became a subject of our UCO. At first, Guglielmetti had me grease the palms of a couple union guys, either by slipping them some cash or paying for a vacation or rental car.
It gave us a firsthand look into how the Mob maintained control over the Laborers’ Union. We learned that if you were a laborer who wanted employment on a construction site, you didn’t go to an employer. Instead you went to the union hiring hall. There, local officers decided who worked and who didn’t. Those laborers who got employment never saw the complicated kickback schemes, real estate frauds, and other misuse of their dues. Those “investments” were made by union leaders, beholden not to the rank and file, but to bosses who reported to the general president’s office and, from there, to the Mob.
Two years in, Operation Double Sessions was pulling me in multiple directions. To further establish the legitimacy of Hemphill Construction and lend me needed help, I brought in more FBI UCAs.
My first “employee” and right-hand man was brand new to the undercover game and came highly recommended by my old friend Jarhead. Assuming the undercover name Mike Sullivan, this recent graduate from the FBI’s Undercover School had previously served in the military and still maintained a stiff manner and bearing. He transferred from Philadelphia to Boston, bought a house near mine, and the two of us carpooled three hours every day back and forth to the Hemphill Construction offices in Providence.
I doubt Sullivan remembers those drives as heart-warming and fun, because I spent many of them critiquing his performance bluntly as I tried to quickly school him in the nuances of undercover work. For example, the first time he
met Guglielmetti as the mobster passed through our office, Sullivan addressed him as “sir.” Guglielmetti reacted with a strange expression. The only people who had previously called him “sir” were federal judges—or in this case a new FBI UCA from a military background.
I took Sullivan to the woodshed, told him this was not “fuck-around time,” and explained that even the slightest mistake could cost us our lives, or at least, compromise the case.
Like the good soldier he was, Mike took my corrections, learned, and eventually proved himself invaluable. We added two more FBI UCAs from outside the Boston area—Ken Jones and Doug George—one was a financial wizard and could cook the books for us, and the other had pre-FBI experience in construction management. They were both quiet professionals who supported me when I was overmatched with business, financial, or union details. They could talk the talk and walk the walk when I had trouble banging a nail in straight, let alone posing as a construction magnate.
At times during the Guglielmetti UCO, I needed a quick break from the LCN and used that time to lend a hand in other cases. One such opportunity came in early February 2002, when one of the Agents in the Boston office approached me about acting as an undercover in a murder-for-hire case.
Trying to avoid being pigeonholed as an Organized Crime undercover, I welcomed the opportunity to branch out into other areas. Apparently, the Case Agent thought I looked like someone who would commit a murder for pay, so I gave it a shot.
An informant had approached our office with information about a man who wanted to hire someone to rob and possibly murder an elderly man who ran gambling games in Hudson, New Hampshire.
Taking a day off from Mike Jameson, I left my suits in the closet, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt and drove out to Methuen, Massachusetts, where I met a small-time New Hampshire crook named Donald Blake.
The informant introduced me as—what else?—a mobster from Rhode Island willing to whack someone for pay. I basically impersonated Matty Guglielmetti, adopting the same swagger, language, and attitude I’d been observing daily. Blake bought my ruse hook, line, and sinker, especially after I braced him against my truck and searched him for a wire before introducing myself. Then, I pulled my shirt up to show him I wasn’t wearing a wire, being careful not to reveal the recording device concealed elsewhere on my body.
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