In the end, our investigation concluded that Jim Klein was likely the victim of a grave injustice, and that superficial police work had failed to determine the real killer of Kim Klein and Martha Lema. Nevertheless, up until his retirement Thomas Keegan remained steadfast in his contention that the evidence he had compiled still stands. “Case closed!”
9
THE FBI BEAT ME TO THE RANSOM
Cesar Augusto Ortega.
Richard Louis Ventola.
It was a kidnapping that ended in a matter of hours with the safe return of an 8-year-old boy and the quick arrest of his abductors. But it would be weeks before the FBI would recover the ransom money—and I came close to being the person who returned it.
Young John Calzadilla was kidnapped while returning from school in the exclusive Dix Hills section of Long Island, New York. It was the latest in a dozen kidnappings that had taken place across the country in 1974, including the abduction just six weeks earlier of newspaper heiress Patty Hearst. His father Michael Calzadilla, a local tire-company executive, was terrified, and feared the worst. A Cuban exile, he believed his son’s abduction was politically motivated.
It wasn’t. The kidnappers’ motives became clear early that evening, when the phone rang and a male voice on the other end claimed to have the boy, and demanded $50,000 for his return. Calzadilla spent the next 24 hours raising the cash. As instructed, he had it collected in tens, twenties, fifties and hundreds, all carefully marked by the FBI, before he headed out to the drop point in North Bergen, New Jersey. He was sweaty and trembling during the one-hour drive, filled with uncertainty about his son as he listened to reports of the kidnapping on the radio. He prayed that John was still alive, and that the kidnappers would release him unharmed after he delivered the money.
It was 2 a.m. when Calzadilla approached a remote railroad overpass at the end of a darkened road. His eyes strained to cut through the blackness. No one was in sight. He climbed up to the tracks, stood for a moment and tossed the small black attaché case with the loot into a ravine. Having met the kidnappers’ demands, he raced home to await their next call. It came shortly after 4 a.m. Anger and threats filled the male caller’s voice as he claimed the ransom was not where it should have been. In a panic, the father raced frantically back to the drop point. The money was gone.
With their ransom unpaid, and fearful that police were on their trail, the kidnappers panicked and decided to release young John Calzadilla, who walked into a motel near the Holland Tunnel and asked a clerk to call police and his family. He was unharmed, and the 32-hour ordeal was over—but the whereabouts of the kidnappers and the $50,000 ransom remained unknown.
Within days, seven people—two adults and five teens—were arrested in connection with the crime, and charged with kidnapping and extortion. The prosecutor described the case as “a bungled kidnapping that became a comedy of errors.” Under intense questioning by the FBI, corroborated by a lie-detector test, all of the suspects denied receiving the ransom, prompting then–U.S. Attorney for New Jersey Jonathan Goldstein to declare that anyone who had the money would be held just as culpable for the kidnapping as those who had already been charged.
That sent shivers through the spine of Richard Louis Ventola, a conductor, and Cesar Augusto Ortega, a brakeman for Penn Central Railroad. The two had been assembling a freight train the night Calzadilla made his drop, and after seeing something being thrown from the tracks, they went to explore and were stunned when they found the case stacked with thousands of dollars. “Finders keepers” was their immediate thought, as they fantasized about what they could do with all that cash. Ventola was heavily in debt, and Ortega’s wife was expecting another baby in a matter of weeks. They argued over whether or not to tell authorities about their find—but they figured that since someone had thrown it away, it was probably Mafia money, so they decided to keep it.
Sitting alongside the track, they stuffed the cash into their coveralls and lunch boxes, later stashing it in their work lockers for safekeeping until they could make an equal split. But the story of the missing ransom was all over the news, and it wasn’t long before the two railmen realized that it was the money they found. Ortega was frightened, and suggested to his coworker that they call the police and turn the money in. But they didn’t immediately, out of fear that they would be implicated in the kidnapping.
With no idea how to unload their loot, Ventola, who was 26, and Ortega, 23, went into panic mode. They were convinced that the bills had been marked, and by now their fingerprints were all over them. So they decided to wash each bill with soap and water, and hung them up to dry on a clothesline in Ortega’s kitchen. Afterwards, they stacked all the bills into a box and hid it in Ortega’s freezer, behind the ice cubes. (Well, not exactly all of it—they each peeled off a few hundred dollars for themselves, with which Ventola took a quick trip home to Santo Domingo, and Ortega bought a crib and other furniture for his new baby.)
The FBI, which had over 200 agents working on the case, focused its search for the ransom on the railroad yard after one agent discovered a money wrapper near the ransom drop point. Penn Central workers, including Ventola and Ortega, were questioned. After being brought before a grand jury, where they perjured themselves, the duo decided they had gotten deeper into this than they had expected, and felt it was time to get rid of the money. They contacted an attorney, who tried to cut a deal with the U.S. Attorney whereby the money would be returned in exchange for a guarantee that no criminal charges would be filed. Jonathan Goldstein rejected the offer, declaring, “We will not be blackmailed.”
Meanwhile, the situation was taking its toll on Ortega and Ventola. Ortega’s wife threatened to leave him unless he surrendered the money—and both men were petrified of going to jail if they were caught. They figured that if they dumped the money somewhere with a note, the heat would be off of them. Someone suggested they use a reporter as an intermediary, somebody who could be led to the money at a predetermined location, to turn it over to the police without giving them any knowledge who it came from. Ortega’s attorney, Dennis Salerno, asked me if I would be interested in such a covert mission. “Absolutely,” I replied. He took my card, and told me one of the men would call me to discuss details.
The call never came. Ortega and Ventola were arrested while they were in the process of “laundering” the money a second time, trying to remove any remaining fingerprints. When FBI agents recovered the money, the bills were still moist. Their attorney later told me that Ortega informed him he was putting the money through the cleansing process one more time, in preparation to call me.
The two were charged with illegal possession of ransom money and perjury for lying to the grand jury. At their arraignment, defense attorney Kevin Prongay pleaded for leniency, describing his clients as “just two Joe Schmoes who were standing there doing their jobs when, all of a sudden, the money fell down.” Going further, he pleaded with the judge, “We’re all human, we’re all mortals, we all act irrationally at times.” Prongay went on to argue that his clients “had not acted with criminal intent,” and said that once they had the money, fearful that police had marked the bills, they simply didn’t know how to do anything with it without incriminating themselves.
Ventola pleaded guilty to the charges, and received a suspended sentence. Ortega decided to fight and went to trial. He was found guilty and sentenced to six months in jail. The court was lenient with both men, because neither had been in trouble before. Authorities recovered all but $3,900 of the $50,000 ransom, which the rail workers pledged to repay.
Shortly after they were arrested, I received a call from J. Wallace LaPrade, special agent in charge of the FBI in New Jersey. He was curious to know why my business card was found in the possession of one of the defendants! I explained to him that I was supposed to be the guy they were going to lead to the ransom money, adding, “But you guys beat me to it.”
10
THE FUGITIVES AND ME
Fugitive Kent
Laning revealing plans to surrender during live broadcast.
In 1972, it was the best reality television of the time—a fugitive from justice walking into a TV studio to talk about his escape from prison and announce his intentions to surrender. And I had the scoop. It would be the first in a number of similar cases, in which my reputation as a trustworthy local reporter would bring me into close contact with men on the run from the law.
33-year-old Kent Laning had been on the lam for two months from the minimum-security prison farm in New Jersey where he had been serving a one-to-three-year sentence for burglary. Police had long since put out a national alert for his arrest by Friday, April 14, 1972, when he walked into the studios of WNEW-TV in New York and agreed to join me during our live 10 o’clock newscast to announce that he was ready to give himself up.
Wearing a light zippered jacket, brown shirt and tan slacks, Laning appeared a little nervous as he looked over my shoulder into the camera to tell us, “I can’t live like I’m living now.” He declined to say where and how he had been living since going AWOL, saying, “I’d be letting friends down.”
There was sadness in his deep-set eyes as Laning justified his escape. He claimed that corrections officers had refused to allow him to phone home after he learned that his wife and two of his children were sick. When he didn’t hear from his wife, he became alarmed.
“I felt there was something serious at home, and I wanted to be there,” he explained.
As we continued our live interview—which ran over eight minutes, unprecedented for local newscasts at the time—the station’s switchboard began to light up with dozens of calls from viewers. Some callers complained that we were glorifying fugitives. Others were sympathetic, and offered to help Laning.
The lanky fugitive said he had decided to tell his story on the air in order to dramatize the need for prison reform.
“Something needs to be done,” he said. “There’s a lot of people there that want help, but they’re just not getting to them.” Among the reforms he said he would like to see implemented were better rehabilitation programs, extended furloughs and work-release details, and “getting some of those guards off our backs.”
Though I, and others, had expected Laning to turn himself over to police after the broadcast, it wasn’t until we were on the air that I learned of his intention to surrender on Monday, after spending the weekend with his family to celebrate his sixth wedding anniversary and his daughter’s fifth birthday. Joe Grant, publisher of Penal Press International, accompanied Laning to the studio, and said that before the broadcast he had informed New Jersey Director of Corrections and Parole Al Wagner of Laning’s plan, and was told it wouldn’t be a problem—a claim Wagner later denied.
After the interview, Laning stopped to accept handshakes and good wishes from members of the studio crew, and to take a couple of calls from viewers. There was a sudden burst of anxiety throughout the studio when the news desk informed us that they had received a call from police, inquiring about the fugitive we had on the air live. As I escorted Laning and Grant out through the garage, I observed a couple of detectives entering the main entrance to the building, just a few yards away. I didn’t want to know where Laning was heading, but asked him to call me on Monday so I could be with him when he surrendered. As the two drove off, they passed other detectives from the precinct just a block away, who were now descending on the studio.
The next morning I called the Americana Hotel, where I knew Joe Grant was staying. To my surprise, it was Laning who answered the phone. I told him of the uproar his appearance had created, and that it had made headlines in all of the city’s newspapers. New York police and New Jersey corrections authorities were red-faced with embarrassment over the fact that Laning had managed to elude them after his shocking appearance on television, and the pressure was on to find him. I encouraged him to turn himself in immediately. We agreed to do a follow-up interview, but when I arrived at the hotel, only Grant was in the room. He agreed that Laning shouldn’t delay his surrender any longer—but it was too late. A telephone call from my news desk informed us that Laning had been arrested and taken to the 14th police precinct.
We arrived as he was being led toward a police car for booking in lower Manhattan. With his hands cuffed behind his back, Laning managed just a few words, saying he had hoped it would not end this way, and that he had in fact intended to keep his promise, and surrender in two days.
Laning was extradited back to New Jersey, where a grand jury promptly indicted him for escape. Initially, Laning pleaded not guilty, and I was subpoenaed to testify at his trial. But it never came to that. Laning ultimately changed his plea to guilty, and the judge added one year to the sentence he had already been serving.
* * *
Two years later, newspaper reporter Lawrence Babich and I were contacted by another fugitive, a New Jersey mechanic who wanted to surrender to us. The suspect told us he was concerned for his safety, and feared that police would physically harm him.
35-year-old Peter Crandall was wanted for the murder of two-year-old Lorraine Hoffman and the physical abuse of her three-year-old sister Kelly Ann, who was found with multiple bruises on her body. The children’s mother, Kathleen Pearl Hoffman, had already been charged with murder and child abuse.
Dressed in light-blue slacks and a brown sport shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his arms, Crandall drove his blue station wagon into the parking lot near the Holland Tunnel where we had arranged to meet. Joined by his wife Kathy and attorney Peter Willis, Crandall insisted he was innocent, claiming he was the victim of a “grudge act” by the children’s mother, who was in love with him. The Crandalls took Kathleen Hoffman into their home because she had no place to stay with her children, and months later asked her to leave after she came home intoxicated and angry. Mrs. Crandall said that when Kathleen left she threatened “she would get revenge on me, and that’s why she has implicated my husband in this crime.” As we sat in a nearby diner over hot cups of coffee, Crandall claimed he first heard of the crime when he read in the newspaper that there was a warrant out for his arrest.
“I was so scared,” he said. “I was just driving around, trying to get myself together. I haven’t slept or eaten.”
His voice faltered for a moment as he spoke emotionally about the crime he was accused of committing. “I’d sooner kill myself than kill a child,” he declared. “I don’t beat my own kids. Why should I beat someone else’s child?”
We escorted Crandall to police headquarters, where he kissed his wife goodbye and was taken into custody by Lieutenant Thomas Fitzpatrick, commander of the homicide squad, who vowed to take personal responsibility for his safety.
A grand jury subsequently indicted Crandall for murder and child abuse. Unable to post bail, he was held in the county jail for almost a year before his trial. His distraught wife Kathy corresponded with me, hoping I could be of some help, “because maybe a newsman has more power with people than just a person on the street.” Assuring me that Peter was a good man, she added,
“He has three children with me, and he has never hurt them,” and she expressed the fear that “if they put him away he’ll die not only inside, but physically as well. He didn’t do it, he couldn’t do it. He doesn’t have it in him.”
In letters to me from the county jail, Crandall kept me updated on the progress of his case as he awaited trial. In one hand-scrawled letter, he expressed his desire to donate one of his kidneys. “Believe me, this is not a con game and has nothing to do with my case,” he wrote. “Someday my three kids may have kidney trouble, and they will need help. I feel it’s my place to help somebody.”
Crandall was so determined that his offer to donate a kidney resulted in a court hearing, where I was subpoenaed to testify about my correspondence with him. Prosecutors said that while Crandall’s gesture was noble and magnanimous, they feared the medical procedure would further delay the trial. New Jersey Superior Court Judge Joseph Hanrahan agreed and denied
Crandall’s request, noting that Crandall could be just as gracious after his trial.
In the end, Crandall never donated his kidney—nor did he go to prison. A jury found him not guilty after his attorney presented apologetic letters from the dead girl’s mother, exonerating her co-defendant from any involvement in the child’s murder.
After his ordeal, Crandall moved to Florida, got a job and stayed out of trouble. He returned to New Jersey ten years later to see his attorney one more time—to present him with a check for $5000, a debt he simply couldn’t afford to pay a decade earlier.
* * *
My reputation among the inmates at Trenton State Penitentiary was what prompted Charlie Potter to reach out to me. Potter was a fast-talking con artist who jolted me out of bed one morning with a phone call.
“You Marvin Scott?” he asked. Barely waiting for my answer, he blurted, “If you want a story, get your ass down to Trenton.” He proceeded to tell me that he was a fugitive who had escaped from nearby Trenton State, and was ready to turn himself in, but wanted a reporter to arrange his surrender to someone from the New Jersey Attorney General’s office. Potter told me he had been serving time for murder.
I informed my news director, Ted Kavanau, about the call, and asked him to make contact with New Jersey authorities and arrange for a camera crew to meet me at the Holiday Inn across the street from the statehouse. With a kiss and “Have a good day” sendoff from my wife, I got into my car and raced down the turnpike to Trenton, where I rendezvoused with Potter in front of the bus terminal. Bristling with bravado, he got into the car and immediately let me know he was armed with a .38-caliber revolver and that police wouldn’t take him alive.
That rattled me a bit! Here I was in a moving car, sitting next to an armed escaped convict with no visual signs that I was a reporter. With no specific destination in mind, he told me to drive on. There being no cell phones back then, I stopped periodically at pay phones to call the news desk to determine whether the Attorney General’s office had been contacted, and if the crew was on the way.
As I Saw It Page 6