Shallow Graves

by Maureen Boyle

  Tony said he would be at the seven o’clock Mass and at the rehearsal for his sister’s wedding.

  As the priest left, he told Tony to help himself to the leftover spaghetti on the coffee table.

  RICHIE AND THE TEAM of state troopers were waiting near the Freetown rectory on Middleboro Road, an arrest warrant in hand for Anthony DeGrazia. Maryann and Jose went to a payphone down the street. Posing as a reporter, Maryann called the house and asked for Tony. She chatted with him for a bit then radioed the others. It was a go. Tony was there.

  It was raining when the other investigators moved in. Richie went to the back of the building; Lorraine went to the front. More troopers arrived. They knocked on the door. No one answered. They didn’t have a search warrant so they couldn’t force their way into the house. Richie decided to walk over to the church to ask the priest to let them in.

  Father Harrison had just finished officiating the four thirty wedding at the church. The bride, groom, and the guests were in the foyer, and the priest, still wearing his vestments, was headed to the sacristy when he saw a man in the hallway.

  “Father, I would like to speak to you in private,” Richie said.7

  The priest noticed what appeared to be a wallet in the man’s hand. He thought the man was giving the church a donation.

  Richie looked at the priest. “Father, I have a warrant for Anthony DeGrazia’s arrest.”

  The priest was flustered. “Okay, I’ll go down there. He’s at the rectory,” he told Richie.8

  Father Harrison got in his car and started to drive the 350 yards through the parking lot to the rectory next door, driving past Richie. He stopped and the detective got in. “I know you’re upset about this,” Richie comforted the priest.

  As they pulled up to the rectory, the priest could see the police gathered outside. He asked to go in first so he could talk with Tony and bring him out. The officers agreed.

  Inside, the priest went through the rooms, calling for Tony. There was no answer. He came back out and told the investigators Tony was gone. He is there, they answered. We spoke with him. The priest went back in, calling for Tony. “Anthony you gotta come out,” he hollered.

  When the priest came back out a second time, the investigators were skeptical. A trooper spoke with Tony. He was there. The priest invited the cops inside to see for themselves.

  As they started in and began to search, one trooper asked about a plate of food and a cold drink on a table in the living room.9 The police later said the priest at that point suggested they needed a search warrant. The priest said he panicked and was worried he could get in trouble with the diocese for letting them in without a warrant.

  “Stop,” Richie told the investigators when the priest mentioned a search warrant.

  Jose took the priest aside. He was a parishioner at St. John Neumann Church and knew Father Harrison well. He explained they would get a search warrant from the court if needed. Did he want that? The priest paused then told them to keep searching.

  Tony was gone. There was a door on the southeast side of the house the police didn’t know about.

  The priest went back to the church for the next two wedding rehearsals as the police searched. He had to break the news to Tony’s sister that he likely wouldn’t be at her wedding.

  Father Harrison walked around the property that night with his dog, calling for Tony. Later, Tony called the rectory; he wanted the priest to know he was safe. He wouldn’t say where he was.

  The next night, Tony called again. He would turn himself in to the authorities on Monday. Tony told the priest how he eluded arrest. He heard the police outside the rectory talking on the radio, saying they needed to notify Freetown police they were making an arrest in town. Tony crawled out the guestroom window and onto the roof. He crawled along the roof, jumped off, then ran into the woods. Again, he wouldn’t say where he was. He would only tell the priest that he had spoken with his attorney, that he was safe, and that he would surrender to authorities on Monday.

  That Monday Tony was in New Bedford District Court with his lawyer to surrender. He was arraigned on charges of attempted murder and assault with intent to murder.

  He was brought back, shackled, to the Bristol County Jail and House of Correction on Ash Street. There would be no bail.

  When the attorney for Kenny Ponte heard about the arrest, he said police might have been too quick to eliminate Tony as a suspect in the murder case. “Mr. DeGrazia was linked a lot to this investigation in the past year,” Kevin Reddington said.

  KENNY PONTE read the news about Tony’s latest arrest with interest. Why aren’t they focusing on this guy as a suspect, he repeatedly asked. Why am I in the crosshairs? Why am I under indictment? Those were the same questions his lawyer, Kevin Reddington, had been asking publicly for months. The Freetown man had a history of sexual-assault arrests, was under indictment in a series of attacks on prostitutes, and revealed deep-seated mental health issues during court-ordered evaluations. The decision to indict Kenny was puzzling to the defense attorney when, based on the evidence he was seeing, Tony DeGrazia was a better suspect.

  “DeGrazia kind of slipped by the wayside,” Kevin recalled. “For some reason, the DA’s office focused on Kenny. It seemed almost like a vendetta.”10

  It was now one month after the primary and two months before a new district attorney would take over. The defense attorney was waiting for the next move after the first of the year. He was hoping that move would be to drop the charges against Kenny.

  PAUL WALSH closed the door of the conference room and then sat across from Jose and Maryann. The conference table was clean. He wanted every meeting with the troopers to start that way. Clean table. Fresh start.

  Just two weeks earlier, he had been sworn in by his father, Paul Walsh Sr., in the second-floor courtroom at New Bedford Superior Court as the new Bristol County district attorney. After his swearing in, there was a bit of political handshaking, backslapping, and congratulations. Then there were, as always, the quiet “do-you-have-a-second” requests: Do you have a job for me? For my kid? For my wife? For my brother? He expected that and knew how to answer. He would smile; he would review the names, the résumés, the backgrounds. He might say it was too soon to make any decisions, or he might say he was still settling in. He always answered people with a smile. He had grown up with election days, election nights, and political parties. He knew which political events to attend, how long to stay, how to be polite but noncommittal. He knew the language of politics and subscribed to the adage of Boston politician Tip O’Neill: “All politics is local.” Now, with the election over and his team in place, Paul knew it was time to get down to the business of the office: prosecuting bad guys. At the top of the list was the highway killing case.

  The new district attorney knew he couldn’t move forward without looking back. He needed to make a decision quickly. The legal speedy-trial clock was ticking in the murder case against Kenneth C. Ponte. In Massachusetts, a defendant must be tried within 365 days after arraignment unless a judge approves an extension. It was now month five in the case of Commonwealth v. Ponte. Hard decisions needed to be made. If he prosecuted and lost, Ponte could not be tried again if new evidence surfaced. If he dropped the case, his predecessor’s supporters would claim the “kid,” the “new guy,” didn’t have the balls to take on the tough cases. He wondered if this indictment of Kenny Ponte in the waning days of the campaign was a land mine, a political “FU” from his predecessor when polls suggested a Walsh primary win.

  Walsh knew a little bit about the highway killing case. As a defense attorney, he had represented a cab driver, Arnold “Goldy” Goldblatt—who would sometimes shuttle girls to Kenny Ponte’s house—on drug charges, and a woman who claimed to have a porn tape that never materialized. At the time he was representing the cab driver accused in 1989 of conspiring with Kenny Ponte to buy drugs, Paul wasn’t impressed with the evidence the prosecution provided in that case. He knew, though, that most of the prosec
utors in the office were the best of the best: sharp, ethical, hardworking. The previous district attorney could have screwed up the case, but his staff would have walked those errors back. They wouldn’t let a bad case move forward—or would they? He needed to know what was in the files, what led to the laser focus on Kenny Ponte, and why he was the prime suspect. It would start here, in this conference room, on a clear table.

  Jose pulled out a folder and started at the beginning. And the new district attorney listened.

  For nearly two months, three times a week, from nine thirty in the morning to twelve thirty in the afternoon, Walsh met with the state troopers and, eventually, New Bedford detective Richard Ferreira. They showed him photos of the scenes, gave him details about the victims, told him stories about prostitutes who survived beatings, rapes, and being choked. He learned more about drug deals, hole-in-the-wall bars, and how cheaply sex was sold. He learned about real people unable to escape drug addiction. He learned the list of suspects was very long at times: there was the Coast Guard petty officer caught picking up a hooker; the two guys in a van who raped another prostitute; a guy who lived in Rhode Island and later in Fall River who let the girls stay in his house; the sex offenders out on furlough; fishermen up from the South; Neil Anderson, accused of rape. And, of course, there was Tony DeGrazia. He was impressed by the thoroughness of the reports, the minutiae gathered by teams of state police and local detectives. The investigation was deeper and broader than he initially thought. He recognized the places in the reports: the stores, the bars, the streets. He even recognized some of the names from his childhood days shooting hoops at Clasky Common Park, the Boy’s Club, and the YMCA. He listened and later read the police reports, realizing this was a part of the city he didn’t recognize from either his days on the basketball court or from his neighborhood Catholic school less than a mile from Weld Square. This was a different community. How did he not know this? “The thing that hit me like a two-by-four in the face was that entire, separate universe was going on down there,” Paul later recalled. “It was that second universe. It was almost like storm clouds coming towards you.”11

  He learned about other suspects who were commercial truck drivers delivering frozen seafood throughout New England, members of the Coast Guard, doctors, cops, businessmen. He learned about the distribution of porn videotapes and the people who rented them. He learned about drug sales, about the street sex trade. The new DA and the investigators went through every document, every theory, every witness, every interview. They noted every vehicle used by which suspect. They looked at theories, at motives, at lack of motive. They looked at serial-killing cases in other parts of the country.

  Each session on a specific suspect and segment in the investigation would start the same: with a clean table.

  Each session would end the same: clear the table, pack the file box.

  Jose, Maryann, and Richie gave him facts, not opinion. He would have to reach his own decision. Paul knew what he should do, what he wanted to do, what was the ethical thing to do. To prosecute a person without evidence, to prosecute a person if you have a reasonable doubt as to his guilt, to wonder if someone really did it, would be a violation of the code of ethics for prosecutors, he knew. But he also worried whatever he decided would appear as political, not as justice. He wanted the case to be examined on its merits, outside the Bristol County circles. He wanted another set of eyes on the case. He wanted a second clean table.

  PAUL F. WALSH JR. looked for advice about what to do next with the indictment against Kenny. The new district attorney talked with cops, lawyers, and his advisors in the office about the strength of the case. Should it go to trial? Could it go to trial? In the post-election office reshuffling, Paul had let go Lance Garth, the longtime assistant district attorney his predecessor had tapped to prosecute the case. In the meantime, Paul needed to find someone to take his place.

  The highway killing case posed so many problems for his office, both ethically and politically. When he was a defense attorney, Paul represented at least three people involved in the case. When he was a candidate for the office, he was a harsh critic of how his predecessor handled the murder case and made Pina’s appearances in the media one of the central issues in the primary fight.

  Now, after a two-month review and with five months to prepare for a trial, Paul had a clearer perspective and knew the detailed work that went into the investigation. He was impressed. Dozens of suspects were looked at, hundreds of witnesses were interviewed, federal forensic experts had been brought in, and FBI profilers had even offered suggestions on interviewing techniques and information on possible suspects. Plus, he could see, state and local police put in thousands of hours searching for witnesses and evidence in the case. It wasn’t the investigation that was flawed. This was a case with weathered crime scenes, no eyewitnesses, and fuzzy timelines. A lucky break—or someone with a guilty conscience—is what was needed from the start. He still wasn’t sure indicting Kenneth Ponte had been the right move, based on the evidence he saw. Was he missing something? Would they learn more as a trial date moved closer? Would witnesses—credible witnesses—come forward then? Should they even think that way with a case this serious, with a person’s liberty on the line?

  A few people suggested he bring in a special prosecutor. It was a good idea, Paul thought, but who would be best? One person suggested a former prosecutor named Paul Buckley from the Boston area, a man who had probably never even visited New Bedford, let alone have any political stake in the case. The new DA had started off as a prosecutor in the Boston area and was familiar with Buckley’s work. Buckley was gone from the prosecutor’s office and was in private practice by the time Paul started work in Boston, but he remembered seeing the more experienced attorney in the courthouse, offering advice and compliments to younger colleagues. “I never met a classier, more professional guy,” he recalled.12

  The fifty-five-year-old Buckley was experienced, well liked, and respected. When he was younger, he worked with the Massachusetts Defenders Committee representing poor defendants, from 1964 to 1967, before becoming a prosecutor. He served as a first assistant district attorney in Suffolk County, which included Boston, from 1979 to 1981. He prosecuted murder cases and supervised more than a hundred assistant prosecutors. Serving as a special prosecutor was nothing new to him. He was the special prosecutor in the highly publicized murder trial of Myles J. Connor Jr., a former rock musician and art thief. (Connor was convicted of murder in 1981 and then acquitted in a 1985 retrial on charges of orchestrating the killing of two eighteen-year-old women who, prosecutors said, witnessed another man fatally shoot someone outside a Boston bar.)

  Paul quietly asked around: Do you think Paul Buckley would take on the job as a special prosecutor if I asked?

  PAUL BUCKLEY was acquainted with the new Bristol County district attorney professionally, but he didn’t know too much more about him, even though they had been adversaries in a few district court cases. He knew the new DA was young, politically connected in Bristol County, and once worked as a prosecutor in the Suffolk County prosecutor’s office. When he got the call in his Milton office, asking if he would be interested in being the special prosecutor in the highway killings case, he was intrigued. Other than reading a couple of news stories, he didn’t know much about the case, about the defendant or the evidence. He also understood why the new DA might want to an outside prosecutor. The case had become hot on several levels.

  Sure, he told the new district attorney. Sure, I’ll take the case.

  On March 7, 1991, nearly three years after eleven women had gone missing, the district attorney announced he was appointing a special prosecutor in the case. “He had this wealth of knowledge,” Paul Walsh recalled. “I thought he would be the perfect choice.”

  Even the former DA praised the appointment, saying he was relieved the case wasn’t dropped and offered to do whatever was needed to help the effort. “This has been a two-year effort. . . . It’s very difficult to wa
lk away from,” Ron Pina said at the time.13

  WHEN SHE SAT IN THE COURTROOM in August of 1990, watching as Kenny pleaded “absolutely not guilty,” Judy DeSantos could see the beginning of the end. Here, before her, was the man charged with murder. It may not be her sister’s murder, but it was close enough. She knew she would sit through the trial, she would listen to the witnesses, she would finally get an answer to why her sister, Nancy Paiva, was killed. Judy had had faith in Ron Pina. She trusted him.

  She didn’t know this new guy, Paul Walsh. She worried he would drop the case, leaving all of the families back where they started. She felt slightly relieved when he named a special prosecutor. At least the case was moving forward—for now. She still couldn’t shake the feeling it would eventually be dropped, that the only person charged in the killings would go free. She talked with Jose and Maryann, sharing her concern. They tried to reassure her, telling her this new prosecutor was looking closely at the case. That was a good thing, they told her. She wanted to believe them. Her life was finally getting back to normal, sort of, after the indictment was handed up. She was back at work full-time, no longer taking long breaks from work to sit in the courthouse hallway during the grand jury sessions. She found herself laughing, seeing the joy in everyday things again. Death and those who kill were not always at the forefront of her mind.

  Now, dread coursed through her. What would this district attorney do? Would he care as much? Would he work as hard?

  What if this wasn’t the end?

  CARDBOARD BOXES OF REPORTS and grand jury testimony were stacked on the lower shelves in the conference room doubling as a law library in the Milton law office Paul Buckley shared with four other attorneys. Every week for four months, starting in early March of 1991, Jose, Maryann, and Richie hauled boxes to Milton then meticulously went over what was inside, just as they had done earlier with the new district attorney. Every piece of paper, every report, every piece of evidence, was explained. They talked about the suspects, about issues with witnesses, about the interlocking relationships in a small-city drug world. Then, they brought witnesses up to the office for the special prosecutor to interview, to weigh firsthand their credibility. At night, Paul Buckley would bring reports home to read as he tried to reconstruct the investigation in his mind. When he was done with one set of reports, the investigators would bring more boxes. “They were very, very helpful,” he said. “They never expressed an opinion one way or the other. They were professional and proud of the work they did.”14