As I Saw It

by Scott, Marvin; Rather, Dan;

  50

  A HIT MAN’S SALUTATION

  Frank “The Bear” Basto was a reputed member of the Gambino crime family, a man mobster Vincent Teresa identified as a professional assassin in his book My Life in the Mafia. Basto had a beef with federal law enforcement, and reached out to me to expose it. He claimed that prosecutors were securing convictions of mob figures by getting other mobsters to cooperate as witnesses against them. The feds would win over these truculent witnesses, Basto said, by “wining and dining them”—putting them up in good hotels and providing them with prostitutes.

  During a late-night meeting with me, Basto insisted that he had no part in organized crime. “Hell no,” he said with a laugh. “Organized? You ask my wife—she’ll tell you I’m the most disorganized guy you ever met. I’m a thief, sure,” he admitted, “but organized? Hell no.” He and I corresponded after he was sent to prison on one of his convictions. The hit man was an interesting pen pal, with an unintentionally pointed way with words. In one letter, he congratulated me for winning an Emmy Award, signing it with the salutation, “Keep knockin’ ’em dead.”

  51

  THE FIRE THAT TAUGHT ME A LESSON

  At times, reporters can get so caught up in the stories they’re covering that they lose sight of their human sensitivities. I became one of those reporters—and learned a sad lesson—while covering the aftermath of a dancehall fire in Portchester, New York, in which 24 young people lost their lives.

  It was just after midnight on June 30th, 1974, when wisps of smoke began to waft onto the dance floor of Gulliver’s, a popular restaurant and discotheque on the New York–Connecticut border. There didn’t seem to be any immediate need to panic, but when the bandleader announced that a small fire had broken out in an adjoining building, many of the 200 young people on the dance floor decided to play it safe by heading outside. Those who didn’t soon found themselves trapped by acrid black smoke and flames that engulfed the room within minutes. All-out terror ensued, and many were trampled to death in the human stampede. Piles of discarded high-heel shoes near the exit served as mute testimony to the crowd’s panicked escape.

  When I arrived at the scene hours afterward, it was tragic to learn that the bodies of at least 24 young people who went out for a Saturday night of fun lay dead amid the fire-charred rubble. But I had a story to cover, and my camera crew and I immediately got to work looking for survivors to interview. I spotted a woman running frantically across the parking lot and gave chase, poking my microphone at her and inquiring why she was there. I should have guessed the answer and backed away—but instead I pursued the woman relentlessly, asking her over and over again, “Why are you here?” Suddenly, she let out a blood-curdling scream and collapsed to the ground. My camera and microphone captured every moment of it. Great television, I thought initially; but was disgusted with myself afterward when I understood why the woman was there.

  She had just realized her worst nightmare: her little girl had failed to come home from her night out. Finding her daughter’s car in the parking lot, the mother knew instantly that she had to be among the dead. As others came to her side, I tried to comfort the woman, who was now crying inconsolably. I directed my cameraman to stop shooting. I felt terribly guilty for pursuing her the way I did, shoving my microphone in her face. I realized I should have handled it very differently—common sense should have told me why she was searching the parking lot, and sensitivity should have kept me from getting so aggressively close. But in my quest for a good television report, I lost touch with the better part of my humanity.

  Later, I stood over the editor as we cut the video for our evening newscast, and had him cut out my pursuit of the distraught mother, and discreetly limit the footage of her that we used in my report. But I never forgot what I learned from this experience. In the years ahead I covered many more tragedies, and I always dreaded approaching someone who had just lost a loved one. Sometimes they would welcome the media, finding it cathartic to speak out in their moment of grief. But remembering the lesson I learned at the Portchester fire, I’m more sensitive to the grieving people I approach, and I make it a point to begin by offering them my condolences and telling them that I wish, just as much as they do, that I wasn’t there.

  52

  ONE HELL OF A STORY

  I’ve traveled to the far corners of the world over the course of my career, but one of my most unique visits was to a place called Hell…Michigan. It’s a small, picturesque hamlet 46 miles north of Detroit. I went there during the height of the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962, after UN Ambassador Adlai Stevenson confronted Soviet Ambassador Valerian Zorin and, in a clear, lucid voice, told him he was willing “to wait until Hell freezes over” for an answer to his question of whether the Soviet Union had placed missiles in Cuba.

  I stood by a dam and sat beside a waterfall in the little town, but it was only October, and Stevenson didn’t have to wait for Hell to freeze over. After he presented irrefutable reconnaissance photos to the UN, the Soviets packed up their missiles and went home. As for me, I returned to Hell a few months later, to take pictures beside the town’s snow-covered frozen waterfall.

  53

  CUFFED ON ASSIGNMENT

  It truly was an undercover assignment. I was conducting a radio news investigation to determine why so many so-called “massage parlors” were becoming a part of the landscape of our neighborhoods, and what was really going on beyond those obstructed store-front windows. Were these places simply a front for prostitution? There was only one way to find out: pose as a customer.

  I checked out a place on Manhattan’s West Side, looking to discover whether the women were in the country legally, and whether they really were licensed to provide massages. I never got the chance to find out. Within minutes of my arrival, the place was raided by police. Before I had a chance to identify myself as a reporter and produce my press card, I found myself being rounded up along with the other patrons and employees, and my hands being cuffed behind my back. Fortunately, the inspector in charge of the sting knew who I was, and promptly removed the cuffs. As it turned out, police had indeed determined that the establishment was providing prostitution services. Nothing like being on the spot for a breaking news story!

  53

  THE CONCORDE OVER LUNCH

  The Concorde Supersonic airliner was a triumph of modern technology and engineering. Perhaps it was ahead of its time—it flew at twice the speed of sound, and could cross the Atlantic in just over three hours while its passengers dined on champagne and caviar. There was something undeniably romantic about flying the Concorde at 60,000 feet. “When people talk about Concorde,” wrote one columnist, “they describe it the way we might describe Marilyn Monroe: elegant, glamorous, classic, and peppered with oohs and ahhs.”

  In 2003, after 20 years of service, British Airways and Air France decided to retire their Concorde fleets, claiming they were no longer economically viable to operate. The airlines then each conducted a global search for permanent homes for its aircraft, at museums or similar institutions. Discussing this at lunch with my friend John Lampl, who was Vice President of Corporate Communications for British Airways in the United States, I suggested that he offer a Concorde to the Intrepid Sea, Air and Space Museum in New York Harbor. I noted that the museum was located at the same pier from which great luxury liners like the Queen Elizabeth and Queen Mary once sailed to Europe. He liked the idea, and once he was back at his office he ran it by airline executives in London. They too liked the idea, and asked if I could set up a meeting.

  First I had to see if the Intrepid trustees were interested. Initially they were cool to the idea, concerned about the cost factor, so I arranged for a meeting between them and British Airways officials, who flew in from London. I was asked to sit in on the meeting, which concluded with a handshake and a deal for a Concorde to find a new home in New York. Six months later, Concorde Alpha Delta—the aircraft that set a world speed record of 2:52:59 for the transatlantic crossi
ng—arrived at Kennedy International Airport on its final flight, and was transferred to a barge for its journey up the Hudson River to the Intrepid.

  Credited with having initiated the deal, I was asked to speak at the dedication ceremony. Joined by representatives from the Intrepid and British Airways, I was also invited to ring the closing bell at the New York Stock Exchange. In reporting the arrival of the Concorde to New York on his evening newscast, my colleague Jim Watkins made note of my involvement, and quipped, “See, folks—have lunch with Marvin Scott, you never know what’s going to happen.”

  54

  MY MURDEROUS PEN PALS

  David Berkowitz and Ronald DeFeo Jr. are among the most notorious murderers of our time. Berkowitz, better known as the Son of Sam, killed six young men and women during a shooting rampage in New York City during the summer of 1977; DeFeo—the scion of a family that occupied the infamous house in Amityville, Long Island, that was later claimed to be haunted by demonic forces—methodically murdered his mother and father and four siblings in 1974. Both men are currently serving lifelong prison sentences, their many appeals for early release having been rejected. Over the years, I’ve made many requests for one-on-one interviews with Berkowitz and DeFeo. In pursuing these personal meetings, I exchanged letters with the murderers, which are interesting for what they revealed about the character of the two infamous men.

  David Berkowitz seemed enthusiastic about granting me an interview after I suggested bringing along Eddie Zigo, the New York detective who arrested him. Zigo, who became a friend after we met at a social event, initially agreed to join me on the prison visit for a special report I was preparing for the 20th anniversary of Berkowitz’s arrest. Berkowitz, who hadn’t seen the detective since the night Zigo put him in handcuffs, was so looking forward to seeing him two decades later that he made it a condition for the interview. Zigo, however, had reservations about the visit, and eventually decided not to go. In subsequently declining the interview, Berkowitz wrote me an apologetic typewritten letter.

  “I would have felt more comfortable meeting him with my friends present,” he wrote. “But he wasn’t in agreement with it. I understand. No problem. In any event, please accept my apology.”

  This, it seemed, was a Berkowitz much mellowed by his decades in prison—very different from the 24-year-old murderous madman who terrorized an entire city for a year, killing six people and wounding seven. Known early on as the .44 Caliber Killer, Berkowitz claimed his murderous spree was inspired by the devil, who had transmitted his orders to Berkowitz through his neighbor Sam Carr’s black Labrador retriever. In his bedroom, Berkowitz had scrawled the words, “Sam Carr—My Master,” giving rise to his “Son of Sam” moniker.

  Detective Zigo remembered the night he collared Berkowitz, and told me, “When I approached him, I said, ‘Are you David Berkowitz?’ He looked at me with that grin on his face, and said, ‘No, I’m the Son of Sam.’” The detective shook his head, still in disbelief. “It just amazed me that he was so calm about everything, knowing what he did.”

  In his letter to me, Berkowitz said he remembered very little about the night he was arrested and his interaction with the man who had collared him, and would have liked to meet Zigo so many years after his egregious crimes. “I vaguely recall Detective Zigo because it was a long time ago,” he wrote, “and the entire arrest incident was a traumatic ordeal for me. Nowadays I barely remember this period of my life. It’s a blur. I don’t even remember if I got to speak with Detective Zigo very much. Mostly I recall finding myself at the Kings County Hospital prison ward, and that’s about it. Please wish Mr. Zigo well for me.”

  In the years since his crimes, Berkowitz has turned to born-again Christianity to help him cope with his actions and lifelong incarceration. In his letter, he expressed remorse for what he had done. “I am deeply sorry for the crimes I committed,” he wrote. “I continually pray for those whom I injured as well as for the families of those who lost a loved one.” In conclusion, he added, “I am thankful to have survived, and I wish to move on. God bless you.”

  * * *

  In contrast to Berkowitz’s apparent repentance for his crimes, Ronald DeFeo still vociferously denies that he committed his. Four decades after he was sentenced to six consecutive life terms for murdering his family, DeFeo continues to call for a new trial. His trial attorney initially attempted to plead an insanity defense after DeFeo claimed he had heard voices telling him to kill. In subsequent versions of his story, DeFeo accused the Mafia of committing the murders while he smoked marijuana in the basement.

  In an exchange of letters with me in 1999, DeFeo suggested it was his sister Allison who killed everyone, and that he killed her in self-defense while wrestling for the gun. He claimed that prosecutors had used Allison’s blood—obtained from a shell casing he had picked up and wiped on his pants—as evidence against him.

  “Really, I need to find a real criminal lawyer, get the DNA testing done and I am out the door, because the truth speaks for itself,” he declared in his handwritten scrawl. Angrily demanding a new trial, he went on: “The truth is in black and white. The problem is everyone is afraid of the truth… There was no insanity, only people talking about books, about movies, about me being possessed. All anyone wants to hear is possession stories.”

  The “Amityville Horror” phenomenon that developed in the aftermath of the murders was, in DeFeo’s belief, a total hoax. “Amityville is about money, that’s what it’s all about, an industry,” he wrote, accusing his attorney, William Weber, of having colluded with George and Kathy Lutz to create the whole occult story after they fled their home, claiming it was inhabited by demons. Expressing the belief that he was being exploited, DeFeo first demanded that I pay him for an interview, and then denied my requests altogether.

  “You get paid for what you do,” he wrote, adding, “I am not doing nothing for free while you exploit me some more.”

  55

  PRESIDENTS

  President Harry Truman was just a couple of months out of office when he appeared on a television program with students on NBC. I was a high-school student back then, and as the media rep for the High School Press Association, I was invited to the studio to take pictures. When Truman arrived, he was very friendly as he greeted each of the students on the panel. As I was snapping photos, he approached me to say hello and ask how I was doing.

  “Just fine, Mr. President—and you?” I responded nervously. What an exciting moment for a kid, to meet the man who had just been President of the United States! He was very engaging and seemed to be interested in photography, asking me about my camera and my hobby. While I took a couple of shots of him we continued to chat, and he surprised me by saying that he too enjoyed photography, but never took any pictures himself.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because if I lifted up a camera,” he smiled, “the only pictures I would likely get would be of press photographers taking pictures of me!”

  * * *

  Our first impressions of prominent people sometimes belie the image that is publicly projected of them. President Dwight David Eisenhower struck me as a man who was not comfortable in his role as military leader–turned-president. He had been out of the White House a few years when I met him at the U.S. Military Academy at West Point in 1965. He was certainly gracious when I approached him to ask about the history that was being made in space that day—his fellow West Pointer, astronaut Edward White, was staging the first-ever space walk.

  “You must be proud, Mr. President,” I prodded him—but he didn’t seem to know who Ed White was, until an aide jumped in to fill him in. He stumbled over a few words, and finally provided me with what amounted to a 10-second sound bite. It’s possible he was simply having a bad day.

  * * *

  Richard Nixon was always Richard Nixon—someone who struck me as a somewhat plastic, stereotypical political candidate. I traveled with him in 1968, covering his presidential campaign for the Mutual Broadcasti
ng System. Though his minions were trying hard to project him as “The New Nixon” during that campaign, he came across to me as studied and ill at ease. He appeared to be facing an uphill battle against his expected Democratic challenger, Robert Kennedy—but that changed after Kennedy was assassinated, weeks before his party’s nominating convention. Nixon, now running against Hubert Humphrey, was more dynamic, and knew how to excite the crowds of supporters who turned out for his rallies.

  I got to see firsthand that the new Nixon wasn’t much different from the old Nixon during a flight to Albany, New York, for a campaign stop. I was the pool reporter for radio that day, and got to fly on the candidate’s plane, the Julie, named for his younger daughter. At one point Nixon, who was rarely seen in public without a jacket, came through the cabin in shirtsleeves with a cup of coffee in his hand. He chatted with the small group of pool reporters, talking about the campaign and the remarks he planned to make in Albany. There was a bit of mild turbulence during the 10 or 15 minutes we stood there, and throughout that entire time, I observed that Nixon tightly clutched the cup of coffee in front of him like a prop, with the cup never leaving the saucer. Right or wrong, I interpreted that as another sign of the rigid politician within—the same Richard Nixon we had known for years. Still, months later he went on to win the election.