The Quiet Don: The Untold Story of Mafia Kingpin Russell Bufalino Page 4

  Marsico’s first assistant, Fran Chardo, headed the prosecution, but the first charges would be filed against Sica, a tangential figure at best but someone who could claim close associations to both DeNaples and to Russell Bufalino. During and after his bid for a casino license, the gruff DeNaples would appear at public hearings with Sica at his side, a strange sight, given that the burly Sica acted more like a bodyguard than a spiritual advisor, clearing the way through masses of people, particularly a hungry press eager to hear from the secretive DeNaples. Despite Sica’s denials, the grand jury also learned that the priest and the old don had been very close, so close that Bufalino attended Sica’s ordination party some twenty-five years earlier.

  Less than a month after Sica was indicted, DeNaples was charged with lying to the gaming board about his relationship with Billy D’Elia and about his past ties to Bufalino.

  The grand jury had heard testimony from D’Elia, who was imprisoned awaiting trial on charges of money laundering and conspiracy to kill a witness when he testified about his “friend Lou” in July 2007. He and DeNaples were so close, said D’Elia, that DeNaples attended his daughter’s wedding in 1999, along with several gangsters from Philadelphia, including “Skinny” Joe Merlino.

  D’Elia also testified before the grand jury about DeNaples’ close friendship with Bufalino, and how they were together at dinners and boxing matches, and how Bufalino underlings often visited with DeNaples at his office at his auto parts store.

  DeNaples’ indictment on January 30, 2008, was announced inside the capital by Marsico and state police commissioner Miller. Marsico quickly impaneled another grand jury, with this one set to probe the gaming board, particularly its former chairman Tad Decker, with the expectation that it would lead to the investigation’s original targets, Governor Ed Rendell and his administration.

  But less than a week after DeNaples was charged, the state Supreme Court interceded in the case and stopped the prosecution, enlisting its rarely used “Kings Bench” powers to stay the case. Prosecutors vehemently protested, arguing that the court’s use of Kings Bench was highly inappropriate and had never been used before in a criminal case. But the decision stuck, and the investigations against DeNaples and the gaming board would remain in limbo for the foreseeable future.

  The Supreme Court had interfered in the case before, and its continual interference raised a number of red flags, and the police and prosecutors were more than puzzled over why the justices would step in on behalf of a man with alleged long-standing ties to organized crime. A year earlier, the same court upheld the state gaming board’s decision to award DeNaples a casino license after one of his competitors filed suit claiming DeNaples received preferential treatment from the board and the governor.

  Greg Matzel, a New Jersey home builder, had partnered with Morris Bailey, a billionaire New York developer, to buy Pocono Manor, an old Pennsylvania resort situated just a few miles from DeNaples’ Mount Airy Casino Resort. With access to two highways, Matzel and Bailey presented a plan for a new “destination resort” complete with a casino, eighteen-story hotel, golf courses, shopping center, sports arena and convention center. The plan was far more ambitious than the one DeNaples presented and promised more revenue, yet the gaming board chose DeNaples, and the decision was later upheld by the Supreme Court.

  Now, the widening investigation into DeNaples and the gaming board was unexpectedly stopped by the state’s highest authority, and after several weeks of discussion among the police and prosecutors, all wondered if the highest court in the state was part of a conspiracy. And, if so, did DeNaples truly wield the kind of power that would influence an entire state government and its courts?

  The men asking the questions believed they knew the answers. What they didn’t know was why and how. Why would the Rendell administration take part in such an elaborate subterfuge, and had someone like Louis DeNaples become such a titular figure that even the courts would bend to him?

  To help find the answers, the troopers were dispatched to reinterview the many witnesses who testified before the grand jury, and first on their list was Billy D’Elia. When they arrived at the prison, Weinstock said they needed to talk.

  “What about?” said D’Elia

  The police explained their frustrations, and the discussion quickly turned to Russell Bufalino. The police and the mobster had discussed Bufalino before, but only as it related to his personal dealings with DeNaples and Sica. Now, the police needed to hear more. They had a working knowledge of Bufalino, including his reign over the local garment industry, the gambling rackets and rumors of his ties to the Teamsters. But they needed to hear more, especially since, long after his death, his nearly fifty-year legacy continued to influence modern-day events, and they were starting with Big Billy.

  THREE

  During the latter part of the nineteenth century, thousands of Italian immigrants from Sicily departed their ships in New York Harbor following their long transatlantic crossings and boarded trains for the 130-mile trip northwest to the Wyoming Valley of Pennsylvania.

  Tucked away in the northeastern part of the state and separated by the winding Susquehanna River, with the cities of Scranton to the north and Wilkes-Barre to the south, the region was rich in coal and drew new immigrants seeking work in the mines. Nineteenth-century coal mining was brutal. Men worked long hours deep beneath the ground for barely livable wages, with many falling sick, suffering injuries or being killed on a daily basis from a variety of dangers. Paid by the tonnage, the low wages were often given right back to the mine companies to buy food at the company-owned pantries and to rent the shacks in “mining patch” villages that housed the miners and their families.

  Before the Italian wave of the late nineteenth century, the accents in many of the villages were Scottish and Irish. But the Sicilians also saw opportunity, with many of them having worked the sulfur mines near their hometown of Montedoro and seeing the promise of living in a new country at the beginning of a new century as an improvement over the few opportunities in Montedoro, which means “mountain of gold.” Only there was little gold in the Italian hills, where abusive companies forced workers to ply their trade in extremely dangerous working conditions and used boys as young as ten years old to dig deep into the earth.

  Aside from the dangers below, the Montedoro miners had to be just as alert above the surface, given they had little choice but to bend to the will of the local Mafia lords, who were a corrupting presence in nearly every facet of Sicilian society.

  Extortion demands were commonplace, and failure to pay the premium often resulted in harassment, and even death. As word spread of the new opportunities afforded in America, particularly for mining in the Wyoming Valley, the Sicilian exodus began.

  So across the Atlantic they came, following the Germans and the Irish and the other Europeans, the men and women and children of Montedoro, who settled in the lush valley to work the coal mines, bringing with them their language, food and Old World customs, which unfortunately included the criminal element that plagued them back home.

  Giuseppe LaTorre sailed into New York Harbor on the SS California in 1902. A member of the Sicilian Mafia, LaTorre was joined a year later by his seventeen-year-old son, Stefano, who despite his youth was also a seasoned member of Montedoro’s Mafia and arrived in Pennsylvania experienced in extortion, loan sharking and murder.

  Calogero Bufalino, later known as Charles, arrived around the same time with his brother Angelo and cousin Salvatore. Like Stefano LaTorre, Charles Bufalino had built a fearful reputation that followed him to his new home, a reputation topped only by Santo Volpe. At twenty-six, Volpe arrived in 1906 and was Stefano LaTorre’s brother-in-law. He had come to Pennsylvania to work the mines and with Bufalino and LaTorre to exploit their fellow immigrant miners.

  They quickly made their mark. In 1907, a Philadelphia newspaper published a letter from a Wilkes-Barre resident that told of the problems t
hey faced from the group, who were known throughout the community as the “Black Hand.”

  The Black Hand Society has virtually had a free hand in the county. It has systematically levied tribute upon hundreds of Italians who paid considerable sums for protection from violence, and has committed numerous outrages upon others who refused to be blackmailed. The authorities have been almost helpless. Until the advent of the State Constabulary the District Attorney’s office had no force to make wholesale arrests, and, besides, fear sealed the mouths of the victims. The fate of informers was well understood, for the society took pains to impress upon its victims that those who have evidence against any member would suffer violent death.

  On numerous occasions frightened Italians have informed the police that they have received the usual threatening letter signed by the Black Hand, or have been personally threatened; but when told they would be required to appear as witnesses, they wilted, declared they could not identify anyone; that they had had not even a suspicion of who the agents of the society were, and were glad to get away from the authorities and go back to their homes. Many have fled from the region to avoid the wrath of the society. Even in flight there was no safety. A few months ago an Italian who refused tribute fled with his family to Berwick, and there one morning was called to his door by three men and shot dead. There is no clue to his murderers. Another who gave information a year or so ago against the organization was shot dead late at night at Pittston. Again there was no clue. A third was shot, beheaded, and his body thrown into a mine hole near Browntown. There have been scores of outrages. Houses have been dynamited, men have been waylaid and wounded, women have been terrorized, houses have been fired upon or set on fire, but rarely have there been any arrests.

  That changed on April 22, 1907, when Volpe, LaTorre and Charles Bufalino were arrested, along with twenty other men, for terrorizing the mining communities. Among the charges were attempted murder, dynamiting and conspiracy. The issues surrounding the poor treatment of miners in the Wyoming Valley became something of a national issue, and police departments as far away as New York City traveled to Wilkes-Barre to attend the trial, as did agents of the U.S. Secret Service. Witnesses testified that the defendants were part of a vast Italian criminal society with more than five hundred members in cities throughout the northeast, from New York to Buffalo.

  One witness, Charles Rizzo, testified that someone placed dynamite at his home after he had refused written demands for $500 payments. Another refusal brought a fuselage of bullets. Rizzo went to the local police, which led to the arrests of Bufalino, LaTorre and Volpe. The police, in turn, were threatened with death if any of the men went to prison. Bufalino and LaTorre were convicted and sentenced to a year in prison. Volpe was acquitted and released. Within weeks, several local residents who initially refused the extortion demands and cooperated with the police were systematically murdered.

  By 1910, the three had gained control of all underworld activities in the region, and their influence spread throughout the Italian communities, particularly in a small town called Pittston. Midway between Scranton and Wilkes-Barre, Pittston became the epicenter of the Italian community, where they had sprouted like the spring bulbs along the river.

  By 1914, nearly 200,000 miners were living and working in northeast Pennsylvania, with many working for a mining company owned by LaTorre and Volpe. The two men’s familiarity with the burgeoning unions, combined with their growing wealth, allowed them to bribe mining union officials, along with local politicians and the police. They also extorted money from other mining companies eager to avoid labor issues. When Prohibition arrived, in 1920, they expanded their operations into bootlegging, and their wealth and power grew tenfold. With even more money to bribe local police, politicians and mining officials, Volpe, LaTorre and Charles Bufalino gained wider influence of local mining operations. Among the men under their control was Frank Agati, a district organizer for the United Mine Workers (UMW) who also was a silent partner with Volpe and LaTorre in their Pennsylvania Coal Company. Agati ensured labor peace for his partners while at the same time served as a bodyguard for his boss, Rinaldo Cappellini, the president of the UMW’s District 1.

  Toward the end of 1927, Cappellini’s leadership, supported by Volpe, LaTorre and Charles Bufalino, was challenged by Alex Campbell, an international union board member who took control of the Pittston-based Local 1703. But just weeks later, Campbell’s treasurer was shot and killed as he left a union meeting. Campbell sought to quell the violence and sent three of his men, including Samuel Bonita, president of Local 1703, to Wilkes-Barre to meet with the UMW at its union headquarters. To their surprise, Frank Agati was present. An argument ensued with Bonita, shots were fired and Agati fell dead. Bonita was arrested, and over the next few weeks, several of the reform-minded union leaders were shot and killed, including Campbell, who was returning home with another union official from a meeting with local law enforcement when a car pulled alongside and opened fire with several shotgun blasts.

  The violence prompted Pittston mayor William Gillespie to write a letter to UMW president John L. Lewis begging for help to end the bloodshed.

  The hostile factions in the local organization have created a reign of terror by their lawlessness, dynamiting, murder and murder attempts, which are of frequent occurrence. Two prominent leaders of mine workers were murdered in cold blood in the heart of this city last evening. Our city is in a state of terror and turmoil. The cause of this bloody feud or vendetta is known to every intelligent person in the anthracite coal region. This disgraceful and tragic situation is attributed directly to the bitter hostilities that exist between mine officials, mine contractors, union labor leaders and insurgent labor leaders connected with the Pennsylvania Coal Company.

  The public believes that yourself, district Union President Cappellini and the head of the Pennsylvania Coal Company can end these hostilities and bring this campaign of crime to a close, if you meet together and make an honest effort to settle this deadly dispute.

  Cappellini resigned his position as president of UMW District 1 in June 1928, and his replacement, John Boyland, promised to end the corruption. A year later, the Pennsylvania Coal Company closed. Volpe, LaTorre and Charles Bufalino realized they were unable to control their own local and decided to focus on other business interests, particularly bootlegging, which was far more profitable. Other issues had also led to their dissolution, including LaTorre’s refusal to pay his share of the payment made to the murderers of Campbell and the other union representatives.

  Despite the division within their own ranks, the men were resolved to exact revenge for the loss of their coal interests. They waited a few years, but in 1931, bodies again filled the streets of Pittston. One man, Calogero Calamera, a UMW official who had sided with Campbell, was shot six times. Police arrested two men in the Calamera murder, including Joseph Barbara. A petty criminal and bootlegger, Barbara was an assassin for the Buffalo crime family run by Stefano Magaddino before moving to Kingston in the late 1920s. He was released from custody after police determined they didn’t have enough evidence to hold him. Two years later, in 1933, Barbara was arrested again, this time for the murder of Sam Wichner, a bootlegger who snatched a whiskey shipment owned by Volpe, who had become the recognized leader of the Pittston mob.

  Barbara, who by now lived in Endicott, New York, just west of Binghamton on New York’s southern tier, near the Pennsylvania border, had summoned Wichner to his home for a meeting. Wichner left that meeting alive but was told to come back for another sit-down the following night. Wichner’s body was found a week later with a noose around his neck in the back of a car in Scranton. Again, with little evidence, Barbara escaped prosecution.

  But his stock grew in 1932 following Volpe’s arrest in New York for his alleged role in the murder of John Bazzano, the Mafia boss of Pittsburgh. Bazzano had ordered the execution of three fellow Pittsburgh gangsters, who happened to have had ties to Vito Genov
ese, the leader of one of the five families in New York. Bazzano was summoned to Brooklyn to answer for the murders, and his body was later found in a sack infiltrated with numerous cuts from an ice pick. More than a dozen men were arrested, including Volpe, but they were later released due to lack of evidence.

  The incident, and the arrest, spooked Volpe, and he decided to step down as the leader of the Pittston mob. In his midfifties, Volpe was wealthy and had interests in numerous legitimate businesses. In his place, to run the Pittston mob, Volpe named John Sciandra.

  A former miner who became a mob Everyman under Volpe and one of his most trusted lieutenants, Sciandra assumed control following the end of Prohibition, in 1933. The coal industry was in a tailspin as oil was fast becoming the dominate energy supplier, which resulted in less and less demand for coal. But another industry had given rise in the Wyoming Valley, and instead of meeting the nation’s energy needs, the region was fast becoming a dominant player in the garment industry, where immigrants again toiled for pennies in nonunion shops. By 1937, Sciandra needed help with the growing industry, and he summoned his brother-in-law.

  FOUR

  Rosario Bufalino—Charles Bufalino’s nephew—was two months old when he arrived in America in 1904. His family had followed hundreds of other immigrants from Montedoro, Sicily, over the vast ocean to the new country, and after settling in Manhattan for a few months, the new immigrants followed a well-traveled road for Italians out of New York that took them upstate to Buffalo.