-Caveat Lector- an excerpt from: The Arizona Project Michael Wendland©1977 ISBN 0-8362-0728-9 Sheed Andrews and McMeel, Inc. 6700 Squibb Rd. Misson Kansas 66202 276 pps. - first edition - out-of-print New revised edition - available amazon.com Paperback, 304pp. ISBN: 0945165021 Blue Sky Press, Incorporated June 1988 --[11]-- 11 Arizona Justice The State of Arizona continued having trouble with the prosecution of John Harvey Adamson. Originally scheduled for the first week of December, the trial was again delayed when the court agreed with Adamson's defense counsel that pretrial publicity in and around Phoenix had made it impossible to conduct a fair trial there. It was moved to Tucson, to the court of Superior Judge Ben C. Birdsall. Jury selection would not begin until after the first of the year. Meanwhile, a new controversy briefly cropped up, this one involving Arizona Governor Raul Castro, who had removed the case from the Maricopa County Prosecutor's office in October and assigned it to the state attorney general. Adamson's lawyers, in a motion filed with the change of venue request, noted that Castro's name had appeared in connection with Kemper Marley, the wealthy rancher whose close friend and business associate, Max Dunlap, had passed money to help finance Adamson's defense. "One of Max Dunlap's closest friends is Kemper Marley, a person who, according to police reports, may also be suspected of not only aiding and abetting, but being a principal involved with the homicide," declared Adamson's attorneys. "Kemper Marley is reported to be a close friend of Governor Castro's and is reported to have contributed in the neighborhood of $ 19,000 to the election campaign of the governor." The defense motion went on to claim that because of Marley's relationship to Castro, the government "may have an obvious conflict of interest" in prosecuting anyone involved in the killing of newspaperman Don Bolles. The development brought some news coverage and a denial of any impropriety from the governor's office. Defense attorneys, who lost in an effort to have Castro testify as to why he took control of the case from local authorities, said they intended to pursue it during the actual trial. IRE itself was the subject of several media accounts. In the December 16 edition of the Tucson Daily Citizen, editorial page editor Asa Bushnell told his readers about a dinner party he attended over the weekend with ten of the IRE reporters. It was hosted by the Arizona Association of Industries, which had raised more than $20,000 to help finance the team's probe. Bushnell was clearly impressed by what he saw. His column called the reporters "crackerjack probers" and was full of glowing adjectives about the team's work. "I liked what I saw and heard during the course of a stimulating evening," Bushnell wrote. "I ended up very confident that the net results will prove beneficial to Arizona. It made me glad I'm in the same business with those dedicated people." It was a nice party. For the reporters, it was the first time their seven-day-a-week work routine had been interrupted by social contact with outsiders. Bushnell's laudatory column was like a belated western welcome to the reporters. The column came on the heels of similar public friendliness voiced by Republic city editor Bob Early, who told The Quill, a journalism magazine printed by Sigma Delta Chi, that the reporters on the IRE team were some of the best in the world. "When people of that caliber can concentrate on specific topics for long periods of time, the chances of them [sic] accomplishing their goals are excellent. Since the results of their work will be made available to the A rizona Republic, the effect of the IRE team is to give our newspaper more manpower in an area in which we really need it." Early went on, praising the project's motives: "This is a unique effort in journalism. It points out a solidarity in the newspaper business. It lets the criminals of this world know that they cannot attack a reporter without massive, effective countermeasures from the press nationally. And that message to the criminal element of our society, I believe, will have an effect in putting an end to such attacks in the future." These comments temporarily eased the concern of some of the reporters that the Republic was not dealing with them in good faith. On December 17, the New York Times also mentioned the IRE team. In a fairly detailed piece on the delays in the Adamson trial, the Times quoted "sources familiar with their findings" as saying that the team had documented a wide variety of illegal activities. "It's amazing what they have uncovered," the Ti mes's source said. "They are going to shake up this state like it's never been shaken before." One paragraph in the story made some team members nervous. It noted that "the reporters are said to have implicated the brother of one of Arizona's best-known political leaders, as well as a powerful Phoenix businessman and Republican leader, in a number of criminal activities, in some cases in collusion with Mafia associates." IRE reporters thought the Times story had gone too far. Not that it was inaccurate, for they had dug up plenty of questionable activities by Robert Goldwater and Harry Rosenzweig. Rather, it was felt that the Times had tipped IRE's hand. The time to announce the team's findings was after the work was completed, not while it was still underway. The source for the Times statement was Greene. Koziol, Wendland, and Weisz had overheard him giving the off-the-record quote to the Times reporter. Most of the reporters went home for Christmas. Greene was joined in Phoenix by his wife, Carolyn, and, on Christmas Eve, they drove up to the Grand Canyon, where he had rented a lodge not far from the South Rim. On Christmas Day, Drehsler, who had brought his wife up from Tucson for the day, sneaked into Greene's bedroom and stripped his bed, putting on the team leader's official Christmas gift from the team—a king-sized sheet emblazoned with the same "Deep In Dirty" emblem drawn up for the reporters' T-shirts. Between Christmas and New Year's, there was a skeleton crew working in the Adams. The out-of-state reporters spent the time at home, catching up on sleep and calling long distance every day to see what was happening back in Phoenix. It was as if they had become addicted to the project. "I'm glad you guys are back," Rawlinson said the day Wendland and Koziol returned. "Now maybe the phones will stop ringing with calls from lonesome reporters and maybe we can get back to work." January would be the last month of reporting. Time was running out. There was much to do. Koziol and Wendland were paired as partners for the month. Their first task was to examine the scales of justice in Arizona, which apparently tilted toward the mob. Their first interview would be with Walter E. Craig, the sixty-eight-year-old chief judge of the U.S. District Court in Phoenix, and a former president of the American Bar Association. They spent several days preparing a detailed background report on a number of Craig's past decisions, which, like the case involving young Joe Bonanno, raised many an eyebrow. For Craig's handling of several important cases indicated a benign attitude towards hoodlum defendants and a marked leniency towards the local power structure. Craig was an amiable man who wore horn-rimmed glasses, smoked a corncob pipe, and reminded the reporters of Jimmy Stewart's portrayal of the country lawyer in the old movie Anatomy of a Murder. As such, he slightly disarmed the reporters, who had been told to expect an arrogant, crusty old S.O.B. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, please, sit down. It's always a pleasure to talk to the press," he said as he welcomed his visitors to his chambers. Koziol and Wendland exchanged glances. A reporter from the Republic had told them that Craig usually refused to talk to reporters and that when he did, he spent more time attacking than answering questions. They began the interview politely, talking about their mission in Arizona, the Bolles case, and, finally, organized crime. "Well, let me say this," said Craig, using a golf tee to tamp down the tobacco in his pipe. "If there is in fact an overabundance of organized crime for our population, I'd say fine, let's clean it up. But I don't think there is. I know I've never seen any hard evidence-it's never been presented to me." It was time to get to the point. "Okay, Judge. Don't you consider more than a dozen unsolved gangland murders evidence enough?" asked Wendland. "Now sure, we've had some killings, sure. But who says they are connected with organized crime?" "The police. The FBI. The media. It has been pretty obvious, Your Honor." "Well now, how do they know? Anyway, I hear our murder rate is dropping. And that's certainly good news." "Judge, besides the unsolved organized crime killings, police have identified over two hundred mobsters or key associates in Arizona. On a per capita basis, that gives this state probably more hoodlums than any place in the country." "Well, are those two hundred still engaged in criminal pursuits? You know this is still the West. I mean we are tolerant of a person's past mistakes. But I don't know anything about that anyway. That's not my department." The reporters began asking Craig about his handling of various cases. In particular, they were interested in the reasons why Craig had tossed out a case involving a well-known Phoenix gambler. "You know, I just don't remember individual cases," he drawled over his pipe. "These cases go through here like money in a slot machine." "How about Olen Leroy James?" "I don't recall the case." "It was a gambling case, Judge," reminded Wendland. "James was a well-known bookie. Phoenix police wiretapped 872 of his phone conversations. He was alleged to help run a five-million-dollar ring. There was an IRS lien on him. You tossed it out. The government said he owed a considerable amount in back taxes, $21,019 to be exact." "I just don't recall any such case." It was time to bluff. Neither reporter had talked to James, who worked out of a small downtown Phoenix bar. But they'd pretend. "You say you don't recall him?" Koziol asked, setting up the bluff. "No, I just don't remember it." "That's funny," Wendland interjected. "We understand that you and Mr. James are longtime friends, that you were a customer of his." The tip had come from a couple of police sources. But the reporters wanted the judge to think they had talked to the gambler himself. "In fact, we're told you like to place a few bets yourself. Is that true, Your Honor?" Craig paused for just a moment. His eyes narrowed. But then, he just shrugged. "No, no, I'm not a gambler, fellows. I don't even play cards." "What about Leroy James?" "Sure, I know him. Hell, I used to go in his place and buy hamburgs. I've known him since he was sixteen years old. But I can't believe Leroy ever had more than $5,000 to his name, ever." "Then you do know him?" asked Koziol. "Sure, I know him. You boys been talking to Leroy?" The reporters avoided the question. "You say you know him and have known him since he was a child. You say you'd be surprised if he ever had more than $5,000 in his life," Wendland continued. "But then you tell us that you don't remember a case right out there in your courtroom where he stood right in front of you charged with avoiding over $21,000 in back taxes. Judge, that doesn't make sense. You expect us to really believe that?" There was just the faintest change in his voice. His eyes did not reflect the smile that came when he shook his head and apologized, saying, "I'm sorry, but it's true. I just don't recall the case." There were other cases: a notorious, organized-crime-connected con man with a lengthy record whom Craig sentenced to an amazingly light six-month prison term, even after the ex-con was caught red-handed with part of some $49 million in stolen securities; a land fraud associate of Ned Warren, Sr., freed without bond despite warnings by the prosecutor that he planned to flee the country; a 1976 appointment of a man convicted of tax fraud in Craig's courtroom several years before to the board of receivers of a bankrupt Phoenix savings and loan association; and delayed or extremely lax sentences imposed on the sons of several well-known Arizona families found guilty of narcotics trafficking. To each question, the judge's answer was the same. "I don't remember." "Okay, Judge, what about the case of young Joe Bonanno?" asked Wendland. "I suppose you don't remember that one either." "Not in detail." "Maybe you don't, Judge, but a lot of other people do," said Koziol, who pulled out a sheaf of papers. "I have here a great number of statements we've obtained from people connected with the case. And what they say is that you made facial gestures whenever testimony against the defendant occurred. They say you used unflattering words to the prosecutor and even went so far as to mimic one witness in a falsetto voice. Do you recall that?" "I do not." "Do you recall reversing the jury's verdict?" continued Koziol. "Yes. It's my obligation to set aside a jury's verdict if I believe they made a mistake in the verdict. That's what happened in that case." Koziol read the words Craig uttered in announcing the reversal. "Judge, why didn't you bother to poll the jurors before doing this?" "I don't have to. If I believe they made a mistake, that's all that counts." "What reason did you have to think they made a mistake?" "I don't remember." "What do you remember?" "I remember young Bonanno being in here. I got the feeling he was being tried more for his father's name than his own," Craig said, measuring his words. "I believe the jury made a mistake. I corrected it." Now it was Wendland's turn. He reached inside his briefcase and, from a folder marked "Craig-Bonanno Wiretap," took out several sheets of paper. The reporter made a big show of rustling through the papers, hoping to give the judge time to see the identification label on the folder. In truth, there was no wiretap at all. But the judge didn't necessarily know that. "Your Honor, I would like to summarize for you certain information we have relating to the same day you tossed out the Bonanno jury verdict." Wendland summarized the activities of Joe Bonanno, Sr., how he told an associate he needed a large sum of cash to get his son off the hook and how, on the morning of the reversal, Pete Licavoli withdrew $25,000 from a Tucson bank. In reading, Wendland used words like "subject" and "officers observed," trying to make Renner's memo sound like an official surveillance report. When it was over, he asked the judge whether he had ever heard about it. Craig shook his head, his teeth clamped tightly around the pipe stem. "Do you know anything about this report?" Wendland asked again. "No, I don't. "Did you, just prior to reversing the jury verdict, meet with any of Mr. Bonan no's attorneys in chambers?" The reporters had received a report that such a meeting had occurred, though it had come from just one source. As a rule, such information was not used as an hypothesis for investigation unless it came from two sources. But there was no reason not to question the judge. "I do not recall any meetings," Craig said. They tried several more questions. Craig remembered nothing more about the case, he said, glancing at his watch impatiently. When the interview ended, he got in the last dig. "Thank you for stopping by, gentlemen," he said as the reporters were leaving. "I'm glad I had the chance to be of assistance to you." Still, it was a good interview. On two key points, Craig's answers taxed credibility. He said he knew Leroy James well but didn't recall the case. It is a legal tradition that a judge step down when he is asked to sit in judgment over someone he personally knows. Craig had not stepped down. Indeed, he had tossed the case out, freeing his friend. On Joe Bonanno, Jr., he had said it was his impression that the son was being tried for his father's sins. Judges aren't supposed to have such biases or preconceived notions when trying a case. Craig had implied that he thought the son was being unjustly prosecuted even though a jury felt otherwise. It was a most interesting admission. For Walter E. Craig was chief guardian of the quality of justice in Arizona. And, knowingly or otherwise, his decisions were one reason why organized crime was flourishing there. But there were other judges whose friendships, associations, and personal behavior contributed to, or at least encouraged, Arizona's system of injustice. One example of what is wrong with the Arizona judiciary occurred in 1967. That was the year Paul Laprade was running for Maricopa County Superior Court Judge, a position he won and continued to hold in 1976. On the night of August 8, 1967, the then forty-year-old Democrat was caught running around a swimming pool at the rear of a home on Phoenix's Valley Vista Drive. He was with a forty-year-old Scottsdale woman. And according to police reports found by IRE reporters, both of them were nude and creating a public nuisance. Laprade was arrested and charged with vagrancy and a sex offense because he "exposed his person in such a manner to be reasonably calculated to excite the sexual passion of the other." The loitering charge was lodged because he "loitered, prowled, or wandered around the private property of another in the nighttime without visible or lawful business with the owner." It was a rather sensational case. Laprade was well known, having served as an assistant state attorney general and deputy county attorney. And there he was, caught by police stark naked with a similarly unclad woman. In any other state, the arrest would have been enough to crush his political dreams. Not so in Arizona. Instead of contesting the charge, Laprade simply forfeited his $500 bond, which was, in effect, an admission of guilt, according to court officials. But the disgrace didn't bother his judicial campaign. He was known as "the virile candidate." Then there was the case of J. Kelly Farris, a disbarred Oregon lawyer who was a business associate of land fraud czar Ned Warren, Sr., in the early seventies. Farris, in what looked like an obvious front for Warren, was able to breeze through the State Liquor Board and get a license for a small tavern backed by Warren. Farris got the license largely because of his personal references. They were James "Duke" Cameron, who just happened to be the chief justice of the Arizona Supreme Court, and Maricopa County Superior Court Judge Jerry Glenn, a veteran Arizona jurist. Both judges were contacted by Wendland and Koziol. Both confirmed that they were friends of Farris's and had attended parties in his home. Though neither judge could recall the liquor license [refer]ence, both told reporters that they would probably have vouched for Farris at the time. Neither judge knew anything about Farris's disbandment or his associations with Ned Warren, Sr. Finally, there was the case of Supreme Court Justice Jack Hays and his son-in-law. Jack Hays was perhaps, next to Barry Goldwater, the state's most beloved politician. Born in a Mormon ranching community in Nevada, he had come to Arizona in the forties and had done it all, from local GOP organizing in Maricopa County to serving as Arizona's U.S. attorney in the mid-fifties. He had also been a Maricopa County superior court judge, a Phoenix juvenile court judge, a perennially considered candidate for governor and the state legislature, and, since 1968, a justice of the Arizona Supreme Court. His son-in-law was a quiet, darkly handsome young lawyer named Joseph Abate, who moved to Arizona in 1973 after marrying the justice's daughter, Rhory. Before moving west, young Abate had a fairly impressive employment history of his own. He had worked for New Jersey Governor William Cahill, Congressman Charles Sandman, and, during the 1972 election, Richard Nixon. It was while serving as a director of one of Nixon's young voter organizations in Washington that he met Hays's daugh[t]er, who was then in Washington working for Arizona Congressman Sam Steiger. With the door to political success nudged open for him in Arizona by his famous father-in-law, young Abate had done well for himself since settling in Phoenix, working in the attorney general's office, the Arizona legislature, and the state's most prestigious law firm. He was in all the right civic and political agencies. Friends said young Abate would soon be a legislative candidate himself. And he was just thirty-one years old. Apparently unknown to the majority of his Arizona friends, young Abate had another well-known relative besides Justice Hays. His own father, back in Margate, New Jersey, was publicly known as Joseph Francis Abate, the coat-maker, the owner of the prosperous Atlantic City Coat Company. But in police files, he was also known as Giuseppe Abate, alias Joseph Pignati, alias Giuseppe Abater, alias Joseph Pernatto, and, on the day in 1923 when he entered the U.S. from his native Italy, alias Giuseppe Massei. He was arrested as an illegal alien in Chicago a few weeks after his entry. The address he gave was that of Al Capone's old headquarters. His associates were a couple of Capone hit men. He was immediately released on $2,000 bond which he defaulted on. Arrested two years later, Abate was again released on bond. Somehow, it wasn't until 1937, after two more arrests, that deportation proceedings were officially begun. But too much time had passed. A Chicago judge ruled that the government had dragged its feet too long and dismissed the case. In 1940, he did a one-year prison sentence for a liquor violation. Then he showed up in New Jersey. In 1977, Abate, Sr., had become a full-fledged U.S. citizen. But, according to law enforcement officials, he was also a capo, or boss, of the Atlantic City, New Jersey mob. In 1973, young Joe Abate applied for a job with the U.S. attorney's office in New Jersey. He didn't get it, IRE reporters learned, because of his family background. It was after this rejection that he moved to Arizona. Whether public knowledge of Abate's parentage would have adversely affected his rapid success in Arizona is impossible to discern. For no one bothered to check. Instead, without any investigation of his background, Abate was almost immediately appointed an assistant attorney general in Arizona's law enforcement organization and, later, as a special counsel to the state legislature. Those who knew him had only praise for him. What intrigued reporters was the lack of background checking before he was given authority in sensitive governmental positions. So Koziol and Wendland went to his father-in-law, Jack Hays, a distinguished, gray-haired man who wore a bolo tie held in place by a large chunk of turquoise carved in the shape of Arizona. Tactfully, the reporters asked whether the justice had recommended his son-in-law for any of his jobs. "I'm sure I have," replied the justice, who went on to cite several examples of how he had pulled strings and called on his governmental friends for young Abate. Koziol then brought up the junior Abate's application with the Justice Department to become an assistant U.S. attorney back East. Hays said he was aware that young Joe had applied. "He was never given an appointment. He was rather concerned that he wasn't. But he never told me why." Hays seemed puzzled by the question. Wendland asked the justice what he knew of the background of young Abate's father. Hays shrugged, and conceded that he didn't know much, only that he owned a clothing company and was a terrific cook. He related to the reporters with a grin how the elder Abate had once prepared for him a delicious Italian dinner, completely from scratch. The reporters then carefully read from the information they had gathered on the elder Abate, including his aliases and past associations with the Al Capone gang. They concluded by telling the justice that old man Abate was still considered by police to be an active mob boss. Sometimes, asking tough questions is the most enjoyable part of interviewing. Weeks of researching come to a climax when the reporter finally faces a news source, looks him straight in the eye, and, letting him know how much the reporter knows, unloads the big question. Most of the time, it's the best part of reporting. It wasn't this day. For Justice Jack Hays did not know his son-in-law's family background. He had never been told. And the news hit him hard. The reporters could see it in his eyes. He was sincerely shocked. "My reaction is that I find it almost unbelievable," said Hays, who seemed hurt and confused. "I'm sure that if the Justice Department was aware of what you just told me, and I have no reason to doubt you, that would be why he didn't get the job." Hays was in an embarrassing situation. He had been with the father on several occasions. Once he had even been the elder Abate's houseguest in New Jersey. "I had never been aware that he had a criminal record," he told the reporters. Now, Hays realized how bad it looked. He was one of Arizona's most powerful jurists, who not only made but interpreted the law. And there he suddenly was, related by marriage to an alleged mobster, a man he had socialized with, whose son Hays had helped enter the state's most influential agencies. And the justice's son-in-law had never once told him. That may have hurt the most. The reporters believed Justice Hays, and, as they left his comfortable office in the state capitol complex, they felt sorry for him. He had been taken. Yet, the ease with which Hays had been put in a potentially compromising situation was amazing. It typified another Arizona ill. It was a state where few people asked questions about strangers. The Old West was still very much alive. It was time to talk to Joe Abate, Jr. But he would have nothing to do with reporters. "What do you want to talk about," he hedged when contacted by Koziol on the telephone. "I think this is something that should be handled face-to-face, replied Koziol. "It has to do with your father and some serious questions that his background raises." There was no need to go into the questions. Young Abate already knew that reporters were asking about him. Before seeing Justice Hays, Koziol and Wendland had talked to several legislators and former coworkers of young Abate's in the attorney general's office. He had already been tipped. "The accusations you guys are spreading around seem like a bunch of crap to me," the young lawyer snapped. "It's a lot of maligning and a bunch of garbage. My dad is a wonderful person and I can't conceive anything else about him. Obviously, I didn't know anything about these accusations. Further, they're simply not true." "Look, if the information we have is wrong, then just tell us. Tell me, Joe, was your father born in Italy?" "I told you I don't want to talk about it. It's not true and that's all I can say. I've got nothing to hide. I'm a respectable man and so is my father, I think." "You think?" "Look, this is a very emotional thing for me. You guys are going around asking questions, and I just don't want to talk about this now. Period. I have your number. If I change my mind, I'll call you back. With that, he hung up. Finally, Koziol put through a phone call to the old man himself. He was reached at his Atlantic City coat factory and, in heavily accented English, echoed his son. "I got nothing to say. I know what you people been talking about. I got a list of what you been talking and everything else. I mind my own business. I don't belong to anything or anyone. I don't do anything under the law. I can't talk to you." He, too, hung up. The Abates, junior and senior, were stonewalling it. It made little difference. The reporters' information on the father's background was solid. Koziol and Wendland wrote their memo on the various interviews they had done in tracing Abate junior's job history. Time was at a premium at the IRE office in the Adams. There were a half-dozen major projects yet to be undertaken, and they all had to be finished by the end of January. Because of the need to work efficiently, the reporters and Greene agreed upon a rule. The day would begin promptly at eight-thirty every morning, when the door to the office would be locked. An informal staff meeting would be held; the various reporters would fill in their comrades on what they were working on and where they would be that day. Since most of the investigations touched on each other, more often than not the entire staff was interested and could usually offer a couple of leads. Early on in the investigation, reporters had purchased a roll of plain brown butcher's wrapping paper and thumbtacked four long strips on the wall behind Greene's desk. With a felt-tip marker, they broke the investigation down into four areas: Power, The Mob, Land Fraud, and Power Movers. Beneath each main title were subtitles such as narcotics, political corruption, and business fronts. Beneath the titles and subtitles were the names of over sixty people. Many of the names, those that most frequently came up in the various investigations, appeared beneath more than one title. Originally, the butcher paper was put up so that the reporters would come to recognize instantly those targeted for investigation. By January, the team could spell each name backwards and the paper was taken down, primarily because the office was being visited by politicians and police and the team didn't want its priorities telegraphed. Instead of the butcher-paper wall decoration, a new sign went up. This one bore the figure of the IRE T-shirt's "Deep 'n Dirty" trench coat-clad reporter and the Latin phrase: "Noli Permittere Illegitimi Carborundum," which roughly translated to "Don't Let the Bastards Grind You Down." A similar motto hung in the Washington, D.C., office of Senator Barry Goldwater. The eight-thirty staff meeting was not difficult to keep for the reporters staying in the hotel. Most rolled out of bed at a quarter past eight, staggered to the shower, got dressed, and simply walked across the hall to the office. Myrta Pulliam, the Indianapolis Star reporter, should make the morning coffee, the male reporters jokingly contended one morning. An avid, some charged rabid, feminist, Pulliam, whose vocabulary of four-letter words was impressive, adamantly refused. It became a standard office joke until the morning that Myrta finally made the coffee. She was never asked to do so again. The thick, foul-tasting mud she brewed convinced her fellow team members to order coffee from the hotel's room service and wait for Marge Cashel, the secretary, to come in at nine and brew the first of the daily ten pots. The locked door rule for the eight-thirty meeting was more symbolic than serious. The only team members who had difficulty making it were the Tucson reporters. Although Drehsler and Rawlinson had shared a nineteenth-floor room just down the hallway from the IRE office for the first two months, the expenses were considerable, averaging $1,500 per month. At the end of December, their paper had them move out of the hotel into a $275-a-month apartment in north central Phoenix, about eight miles from the Adams. They shared the two-bedroom apartment with Dave Overton, the Tucson television reporter who had joined the team in December, and occasionally got stuck in heavy traffic and missed the morning staff meeting. They would stand red-faced in the hallway, loudly pounding on the locked door for fifteen minutes. Then, properly humbled, they would be allowed in to start work. Koziol, however, figured a way around the rule. He would roll out of bed at 8:29 A.M., attend the fifteen-minute meeting, and then, announcing that he was meeting a source for breakfast, sneak back into his room for an hour's clandestine sleep. Again, there was a flood of new team members. Ken Matthews from the Idaho Statesman in Boise, Dick Lyneis from the Riverside, (California) Press, and Jack Wimer from Oklahoma's Tulsa Tribune all showed up for the final few weeks of reporting. So did Susan Irby, a twenty-eight-year-old reporter from the Daily Herald in Gulfport, Mississippi. Susan had worked in Gulfport for six years, covering mostly police and consumer affairs news. She had driven her car the 1,600 miles from Mississippi to Phoenix, and, while her paper had agreed to pay her salary, she was absorbing all the expenses herself. What made her unusual was her size. Susan was a dwarf, just under four feet in height. But she was also a hell of a reporter, assigned by Greene to dig into Phoenix's flourishing massage parlor prostitution racket. By the time her three-week hitch was over, she had traced the complicated property ownership of more than three dozen of the storefront whorehouses, linking several prominent Phoenix businessmen and politicians to the seamy business. Her tape recorded interview with one of the massage parlor owners was a classic. Arizona has no statutes against prostitution. The only state law dealing with it was written in the early 1800s. And all it did was prohibit a whorehouse from being located within 300 feet of a mining camp. Though a couple of municipalities like Phoenix and Tucson had passed antiprostitution ordinances, the rest of the state was fair game, including Maricopa County outside the city of Phoenix. Still, most of those who prospered from the state's booming vice business preferred to downplay their activities. Such was the case of one particularly overbearing massage parlor owner Irby interviewed. "You're saying there is no prostitution in your place?" asked Irby, who knew full well it was going on after spending several days observing the man's various outlets from her compact car, specially outfitted with extended controls to accommodate her stature. "Pardon?" "I said, 'Are you saying there is no prostitution going on there?'" "Did I say that?" "That's what I'm asking, did you say that?" "I didn't say that." "Then it does go on?" "I didn't say that." "Well, does it or doesn't it?" "I'm not saying." There was still another case involving prostitution that illustrated the Arizona power structure's penchant for easy money and easy women. It involved Mark Harrison, a young, good-looking Phoenix attorney who, as an influential wheeler-dealer in Democratic politics and the president of the Arizona State Bar Association, should have been the paragon of virtue. The Harrison case began in 1972. The IRE team learned of it through several confidential law enforcement sources who were involved in the investigation into Harrison's activities. During the course of that probe, authorities had secretly tape-recorded attempts by Harrison to set up a prostitution ring catering to high-class businessmen and professionals. One of the team's sources was the electronics expert who supervised the recording. Harrison had become the subject of police interest purely by chance, during an intensive investigation into the activities of a notorious local hoodlum named William Kaiser. In the course of their investigation, the police came across relationships between Kaiser, a number of other mobsters, a couple of public officials, and several prominent people. One of these was Mark Harrison, who had become closely associated with one of Kaiser's sidekicks, a minor hood and convicted pimp named Jerry Mandia. On July 8, 1972, a well-known call girl and occasional police informer told police she had been called by Mandia and invited out for lunch to discuss a business proposition. Mandia told the woman that he and a friend were interested in starting a prostitution ring that would front as an escort service and cater to the well-heeled businessmen who gather in the plush suburban Phoenix resorts each winter during the booming convention season. According to the woman, Mandia wanted a "class operation," with the women screened and categorized as to appearance and sexual specialties. Their photographs would be shown discreetly to prospective clients in a sort of directory. The various prostitutes working for the service would be paid a percentage of the money they generated in tricks. After outlining the proposition, Mandia wanted to know if the woman would manage the operation. She was interested. Fine, said Mandia, who then suggested that she contact his partner the following Monday to discuss the entire operation in detail. As the meeting ended, the woman said, Mandia told her not to worry; from that moment on she would have full legal protection. For his partner was a very powerful and influential man. He gave her the partner's name and telephone number. It was Mark Harrison. About 8:00 P.M. on July 10, the woman arrived at Harrison's office. She told police that after introducing himself, Harrison stressed that he had to be extremely careful with whom he dealt because he had an excellent professional reputation. The woman then got down to business. She asked what Harrison expected of the girls she would recruit for the ring. "He said he expected every girl to take as many tricks as she could," said the call girl. "I asked him if the girls would keep the money they got from the tricks." "Hell, no," she said Harrison replied. "How can we make any money that way?" Harrison, said the prostitute, then went on to say how lucrative the business would be. He bragged that he could keep fifteen girls so busy at the annual bar association convention that they couldn't handle it all. There was no need for her to worry, the woman said she was told, because "I'm a big man in this town." In exchange for managing the operation, the woman said, she was promised twenty percent of the action, a leased car, a furnished apartment, and an expense account for gas and clothing. A number of subsequent contacts between Harrison and the call girl were noted by police. IRE reporters were told by their sources that Harrison went into elaborate detail with the woman, discussing possible locations for the operation and an auxiliary business which, through some of Kaiser's associates, would have the more talented prostitutes pose for pornographic movies and photographs, which could then be sold to the customers and generate still more money. Police documented most of the meetings and compiled a lurid and detailed series of tape recordings, which were reported back to the Arizona Crime Prevention Council, a jointly staffed state agency made up of several police departments, which had first targeted Kaiser, an associate of a top Illinois Mafia leader and the operator of an interstate stolen goods ring, as the subject of an investigation. Shortly after the report had been sent in, one of the IRE police sources said he was called before Gary Nelson, then the Arizona state attorney general and a member of the council. Nelson was deeply concerned. He said he knew Harrison personally and simply could not believe the information police had uncovered. Nelson was convinced that the investigators were wrong. The IRE source then played some of the Harrison tape recordings. Nelson just buried his face in his hands. Shortly after the session with Nelson, however, police noted a change in Harrison. With no warning, he suddenly stopped contacting the prostitute who had been their snitch. So did Kaiser and Mandia. They went cold, almost as if they had been tipped to the investigation. The investigation was abruptly stopped. Two years later, in November 1974, the tape recordings were ordered destroyed by the brass at the Arizona Department of Public Safety. The police sources who worked the case smelled a whitewash. IRE reporters were certain of their sources, who vowed that if push came to shove and Harrison filed a libel suit against the team, they would publicly testify as to the veracity of the information they had turned over to the team. But there was a complication for the IRE reporters. Mark Harrison happened to be the personal attorney of Rosalie Bolles, the widow of the slain reporter who had brought them to Arizona in the first place. Greene had conducted several meetings with Mrs. Bolles. His heart ached for her. She and her three children had suffered enough. How would the Harrison revelations affect her? Yet the team had come to Arizona to shed light on the state's ills, not to lea ve the doors closed. As reporters, they had to go ahead and follow the story where it led. On January 24, Myrta Pulliam and Dave Overton went to Harrison's law office. After small talk about Mrs. Bolles and Harrison's legal and political background, they got down to the questions. Overton began, noting that Harrison, as bar association president, had often spoken about ethics in the legal profession. "We are also interested in that," he said, "and we want to ask you why it was that you attempted to set up a prostitution ring in 1972." Harrison's face visibly paled. He was silent for a long ten seconds. Then, carefully measuring his words in a low voice, he shook his head. "That is categorically untrue in the first place." But then, his face pained, he seemed to contradict himself. "That is something that has been on my mind, the whole ridiculous episode. I'd like to talk to Bob Greene about it." The reporters explained that Greene knew they were there and why they had requested the interview. And they were talking to Harrison on behalf of the team leader. Again, Harrison was silent. He got up and walked to his office window. "Please," he said at last. "Give me two minutes to think about it. I won't run away. I'm not going anyplace." With that, he walked out of the office. Ten minutes went by. Just as the reporters figured Harrison had fled the building, he reappeared. "I'd like to have my partner in here," he said. The reporters had no objection. The partner was Bob Myers. "Is he here as your legal representative?" Overton asked. "No, not really. But he does know all about this." Harrison sat back down. He was clearly shaken. For almost another ten minutes he was silent, occasionally getting up and walking over to the window. He sighed a lot. He broke the silence by clearing his throat. "Do you use tape recorders?" Overton shook his head. "Do you?" "No, I'm not much on tape recorders." Again he was silent. Finally, the partner came into the room. Myers wanted to know if the interview was on the record. It most assuredly was, the reporters said. "Look, I think the best way for us to proceed is for Mark to tell the whole story. Then, I think the thing will make sense to you," said Myers. Harrison began. "As a preface to this, I'm not terribly clear when everything happened. I've tried to sublimate this as much as possible. But you must understand, this all happened during a difficult period in my life and marriage." Pulliam and Overton began taking notes. "I knew a fellow who told me he knew a high-class prostitute who he thought I could have relations with." Again he paused, looking at his law partner for a moment before continuing. "I said something like, 'Well, I've strayed a few times in my marriage, but I've never paid any money,' and he said I should tell her I was interested in starting a call-girl service for winter visitors and I could score with her. I didn't have my head on straight and I acted on impulse. I called her up, I guess. I have no specific recollection. I talked to her on the phone three or four times and visited her probably two or three more times. Sure, I gave her some relatively meaningless types of things, like to start a thing like this in the county and not the city, things like that. But I never had any intention of doing anything illegal. It was a pure and simple con job on a pro to get some action. I saw her three times maximum. I haven't seen her since, never talked to her since. And I've never been involved in any illegal activity of any type in my life. If you are doing a thorough investigation of my life, as I'm sure you are, you won't find anything at all. If you want me to say it was idiotic and stupid, I will, I plead guilty. Look, has your investigation shown anything else?" "We understand that you were making points with her, that you scored with her," said Overton. "As I already told you, I probably scored with her three times. I was using some pretext, some line of baloney about setting her up in business. There was nothing of substance after the second or third time we met. It is my understanding that there was a tape." "Didn't you, in fact, offer a woman twenty percent of the deal, of what she made from working the Johns at the big suburban hotels?" asked Pulliam. "It was a con job, fun and games. I don't recall the specific things I said to her, but it was all baloney. Look at it realistically. I had a decent practice, I represent responsible clients, I was an officer in the bar association with a family and children. I wouldn't ever dream of committing a criminal activity." "Do you know Bill Kaiser?" Pulliam wanted to know. There again was a pause. "I met him at a coffee shop. Maybe I met him there on two or three occasions." "Why?" "That gets back to how this all started. I had never heard of him before that. When I was at another law firm, before we started this firm, I had a client who was sort of a Damon Runyon-type character. He was always talking about deals, and he came in and I represented him. He'd come in and out." "What's the name of this client?" "That could be privileged. I don't know if I should give you that. "It most certainly is not," said Pulliam. Myers interjected; his voice was sarcastic. "I'm glad you are that sure, Miss, but I've been an attorney for twenty years and I'm not as sure as you are. Nevertheless, we can ask that person's permission to give you the name." Harrison continued. "Anyway, it was this Damon Runyon character who introduced me to Mr. Kaiser." "Could this Damon Runyon character have been a man named Mandia?" asked Pulliam. At the same time Myers said no, Harrison said yes. "Mandia told me about this woman, that I could give her a line of baloney. And he was the man who introduced me to Kaiser. But I'm unclear about a lot of this. It's a chapter in my life that I'm trying to forget. I suspect that I used this Kaiser's name in a phone call to the girl. I don't recall exactly how he fit in. I suspect I saw him thereafter, at the time the affair was going on. Subsequently, after I'd seen her a couple of times, I must have asked Mandia about Kaiser and he told me some things that made me think Kaiser was a pretty bad guy and I got frightened. Kaiser subsequently called me here, maybe after this, to represent him, and I said no. It was a criminal charge. The whole thing began as a harmless thing. Then it got way out of my league." "In the meantime, you met with Kaiser two or three times; is this correct?" asked Overton. "Yes." "And you never asked about him?" "I may have. Mandia may have been saying that I should call the girl and maybe Kaiser was involved in setting up this thing. Then I found out Kaiser was charged with something to do with stolen vehicles." "Do you know why you were tape-recorded?" "No, and the person who told me didn't know either." "Was it Gary Nelson who told you, the attorney general?" asked Pulliam. "No. "Do you know Gary Nelson?" "Sure, I know him. We were once partners in the same law firm." "When did you find out about the investigation?" asked Overton. "I don't know. Two years later. Maybe it was a year. It could have been a few months after the affair. It was closed in my mind." "Did you ever talk to anyone about destroying the tapes?" "Not specifically, certainly." "You said 'not specifically,' then you did do something. What was it?" pressed Overton. There was a long silence. Harrison turned to gaze out the window again. "I'm trying to recall what, if anything, I did. I am sure that, it logically follows that whoever was attorney general at the time knows about it. And it could have been Nelson. I never asked him or anyone else about it." "Could someone else have asked about destroying the tape on your behalf?" "Absolutely not." "But earlier you said 'not specifically.' "I'm trying to be as specific as I can. I may have had a conversation with Nelson. But I never suggested or hinted or asked that the tapes be destroyed." "What prompted the conversation with Nelson?" asked Pulliam. "My concern was about a tape that was devastating to me, personally. It was innocent but it looks sordid." "What did you learn about the tapes?" "I honestly don't recall." "Did Nelson give you any indication of what he might do?" "No. It was just my seeking to see if it did exist. I believe—I'm sure-that he did confirm it." That was enough for the reporters. Gary Nelson, the state attorney general, had apparently tipped his old friend off to the investigation. And Harrison, who had served as special counsel to the attorney general, had admitted that he had plotted to set up a call-girl ring with the prostitute, a plan taken very seriously by the woman and the police. It made no difference that Harrison said he was just kidding. The facts were that police had cause to believe they had uncovered a conspiracy and that their investigation into it was suddenly dropped after Nelson had reviewed the evidence. That night, Overton called Nelson at home. In 1974 Nelson had left the attorney general's office and, in 1977, was serving as a judge on the state Court of Appeals. Overton asked Nelson about the conversation Harrison had told them about. "Assuming he was under investigation, it would be strictly confidential information, and I could not talk to you about that in any way, shape, or form," said Nelson. Overton kept pressing. "But did you talk to Mr. Harrison about this matter?" "If, in fact, there was an investigation, I certainly did not talk to Mr. Harrison until after it was concluded, if, in fact, there was one. I never would have talked to him during the investigation. Look, that's the best I can do. And that's probably too much. All my counselors say I tend to talk too much. But I always figure the truth is important." So did the IRE reporters, Overton assured him. "Did you ever talk to someone regarding destruction of the tapes?" "I don't remember, but if I did, it would be in terms of a general policy about destruction of non-useful wiretap evidence. That's a standard procedure in cases that are not going to be prosecuted." Nelson refused to talk further about Mark Harrison. When Overton continued asking questions, Nelson turned churlish. "What you reporters are doing is going out to kill someone as dead as Don Bolles," he snapped. "The only difference is he died by a bomb and you're using the pen. That's very dangerous and there's nothing that can be done to prevent those kinds of assassinations because the people who do that never get prosecuted. Hopefully, they go to hell." Nelson hung up. He said he would have nothing more to say. He had already said it all, thought Overton as he replaced the telephone receiver. pps. 187-208 --[cont]-- Aloha, He'Ping, Om, Shalom, Salaam. Em Hotep, Peace Be, Omnia Bona Bonis, All My Relations. Adieu, Adios, Aloha. Amen. 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