-Caveat Lector- an excerpt from: Loud and Clear Lake Headly and William Hoffman©1990 Henry Holt and Company 115 W. 18th St. New York, NY 10011 ISBN 0-8050-1138-2 272 pps — out-of-print/one edition --[14]-- 14 JoDon Don Devereux and I sat in the Westward Ho Coffee Shop. We met, or talked on the phone, every day, and often went from these confabs to conduct interviews or research. "Last night," Devereux said, "as I thumbed through my old IRE notes, I came across the name Michael JoDon." "What's JoDon about?" "I can't recall exactly; I've misplaced my notes on him. All I have is a name, a phone number, and a reference to Monte Kobey. Kobey was, I think, related by marriage to Bradley Funk and was indicted with Ned Warren for land fraud." The mention of Ned Warren captured my attention. Sent to Arizona in the late 1960s by New York City underworld bosses, Warren worked his way up to a fifty-year prison sentence in 1978 for land fraud. When he called himself The Godfather of Land Fraud, he didn't exaggerate. He bilked tens of millions of dollars from thousands of investors. Warren and his cohorts engineered gold and diamond swindles (flecks of gold were shotgunned into the walls of a depleted mine); oil, gas, and coal scams; the sale of arthritis and cancer cures (the arthritis remedy was a simple cactus juice and water concoction); and of course the staple: "a dream tract of land" that turned out to be an arid desert nightmare, the cruelest sort of fraud directed mainly at people who had worked a lifetime to save enough to buy a retirement home. Not surprisingly, Don Bolles was among the first in the nation to investigate and expose Arizona land fraud operations. My interest was piqued, however, by more than Ned Warren. There were those Mafia connections, and of course the name Bradley Funk always made my ears prick up. "Did you ever meet with JoDon?" I asked. "Yeah. He told me he dated Kara Kobey, Monte's daughter, and he overheard part of a conversation about the Bolles murder. I didn't have time to pursue it then. But when I found the name in my notes, I thought you might want to." "What do you know about JoDon?" "Practically nothing. He was an informant for the Scottsdale Police Department, and they had some sort of falling out." " Let's call that number now." We carried Styrofoam cups of coffee to my suite. More would be ordered up if locating JoDon outlasted four cups. So obsessed had I become with trying to find ways to free Dunlap and Robison that every waking hour was devoted to the case—including fun times with Terri Lee—and at night, visions of death chambers and exploding cars would blast me out of sleep. Even threatening phone calls, which I probably would have taken more seriously in less hectic times, got ignored. I'd received four already, the last only two days before. "Get out of town tonight, asshole," rasped a menacing voice. And added, just so I understood: "Fuckin' asshole, you don't leave tonight, you'll end up like fuckin' Bolles." My four threats from nameless, faceless callers amounted to a trickle compared to the flak Devereux was encountering on the street. Constantly being told his life was in danger, the journalist could believe it after that pickup truck tried to run him down in the alley. But neither of us was going to back off. We'd probably have to get into a new line of work if we did, and in any case be always haunted by the knowledge that we didn't have what it took. "May I speak to Michael JoDon, please," I asked when a voice answered the ringing phone. "This is his father. Can I help you?" "Mr. JoDon, my name's Lake Headley. The Dunlap defense committee has retained me to investigate the Bolles homicide. We're trying to accumulate enough evidence for new trials. I'm sitting here now with Don Devereux of the Scottsdale Progress. Mr. Devereux spoke with your son about a year ago and tells me Michael has information on the Bolles killing. I'd like to talk with him." "I'm sorry. He's not here. My son is a fugitive." "From what? Why is he a fugitive?" "He's wanted for sale of hashish to an undercover policewoman. They framed Michael, Mr. Headley, because he knows too much about the murder of Don Bolles. He realized he can't get a fair trial, and he left the state. Actually, he's afraid for his life." "I assure you, Mr. JoDon, I'm not a police officer and I have no interest in jailing your son. I only want to talk to him about the Bolles killing." "He knows a lot about that. But I don't know if he will talk to you. And he's a long way away." A long way? Distance didn't matter. If he knew "a lot" about this murder, I'd travel around the world to see him. "Can you get in touch with Michael?" I asked. "To tell the truth, I have no idea where he is. He calls me once a week, but says it's better that I don't know his whereabouts." "When is he due to call again?" "Day after tomorrow." "Mr. JoDon, please do me a big favor. Give your son a message. Ask him to call me collect at the Westward Ho Hotel." "I'll give him the message. I can't promise he'll call.' "Urge him. Tell him maybe we can help each other." I felt I might be able to assist JoDon with that fugitive warrant. "Fine. I will. I sure hope you can help him. Michael doesn't deserve to be in this jam." Michael JoDon called two days later. I told him who I was, what I did, and that I wanted to talk to him. "Talk." He sounded young. "It's your dime." "Do you remember Don Devereux?" "Yeah. The reporter." "Well, he's sitting with me right now. We'd like to talk to you about Don Bolles." "You understand, I'm sure, that I'm a fugitive. I have to be careful who I talk with. I was scheduled to appear in superior court on a phony sale-of-hashish charge, and I didn't show." "Tell me about the beef." "After I started making noise about the Bolles killing, the Scottsdale police framed me. It was less than a gram of hashtwenty dollars' worth—I gave to this undercover policewoman who a friend brought over to my house. What you need to know is that I've been a confidential informant for numerous police agencies. Made a lot of cases for them. I was a damn good C.I. But when I gave Bob Powers information on the Bolles case, they all turned against me." "Who is Powers?" "A sergeant in the Scottsdale police department detective bureau. He works intelligence and narcotics. I'd been feeding him information for years, and I thought we were tight. I walked in and out of the detective bureau just like I was a cop. I hung out with him. Met his wife." "What happened to that relationship?" "It soured after I told him about Bolles." "How long after the Bolles homicide did you give him your information?" "It wasn't after. I told Powers that Bolles was going to be killed before Bolles was killed." NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA. APRIL 15 I stood in front of Pat O'Brien's on St. Peter Street waiting for JoDon. It had taken several telephone conversations to persuade him to meet me. I'd given him my physical description, and he said he'd be here, 10 P.m. sharp. The French Quarter wasn't an unpleasant place to wait. Tourists wandered the car-free streets and the best of American jazz filled the air. Echoes of Brando's "Stel-l-l-la" bounced through my memory. JoDon came five minutes late. Behind him two burly young men stopped several yards down the sidewalk. I pegged them as bodyguards. Amateur bodyguards at that, they tried so conspicuously to look inconspicuous. After we introduced ourselves, I said, "I'll need to talk with you alone. I want to tape record." "I'm alone," JoDon said. "No, you're not," I said, nodding toward his tag-team shadows. "Tell your muscle to go munch on some beignets or take in a strip show. You won't need them for a while." JoDon sized me up and made a decision. "Okay. Where to?" "I have a room at the Monteleone. Let's walk." Surrounded by the delectable sounds and smells of the Quarter, we made small talk as we walked slowly toward the hotel. JoDon kept checking over his shoulder and didn't seem too comfortable that I was beside him. How could he be sure I wasn't a cop who'd tricked him? "Relax," I said. "There are lots of people around. It's Easter Sunday, for chrissakes." "Sure," he said, giving me a suspicious glance. "I just feel a little too vulnerable without Justin and Emil along. They're two good ol' Cajun boys I pay to watch my back when they're in from their jobs on the offshore oil rigs." Besides what I saw—a nice-looking, clean-cut man still in his early twenties, slender, with curly brown hair, wearing jeans and a short-sleeve shirt—I knew quite a bit about young Michael JoDon thanks to Naomi Devereux's research. JoDon's connections with the Scottsdale police department began in 1972, and he soon acquired the reputation of an extremely accurate and valuable informant. Early on he helped Scottsdale narcotics detectives seize $1.2 million in illegal drugs, and he followed this success with several more. JoDon had always wanted to be a cop, and working as an informant seemed likely to pave the way. Actually, he probably hurt his own cause. Generally, a good informant is worth more than a dozen detectives and a roomful of computers. The information JoDon fed the police was so accurate that Scottsdale loaned him to other law enforcement agencies: the Phoenix police department, the Arizona department of public safety (state police), the DEA, ATF, and FBI. He was sent as far away as Overland Park, Kansas, where he was instrumental in what was, at the time, the largest drug bust in Kansas history. JoDon won several official commendations for his work. The government paid him well, considering it a good investment. His information was always "the best." That is, until he came around with his disclosures about Don Bolles. The tape recorder sat on a table between JoDon and me. I pressed Record and said, "Mike, tell me what you know about the Bolles case and how you came to know it." "I was born in Scottsdale, went to school there. While I was in high school, I started dating Kara Kobey, Monte Kobey's daughter. Monte leases parking lots in Phoenix. He used to be in real estate until he got indicted with Ned Warren. Anyway, I dated Kara off and on in high school and after. Frequently her dad was at the house with friends when I went to pick her up. Monte looked on me as just another kid who hung around with his daughter. To him, I could have been a lamp, a piece of furniture, a sort of permanent fixture he didn't pay a lot of attention to. The first week in May- 1976-1 was at Kara's house, and her dad was with some of his friends. I heard them talking about Don Bolles. How they were going to kill Don Bolles. I'd never heard of Bolles, and I asked Kara who he was and why they wanted to murder him. She told me he was an Arizona Republic reporter, and she didn't know why they were after him, but maybe it had something to do with Ned Warren." "Did you take this conversation seriously?" "Probably not right at first. But Kara kept talking about it." "Who were the other people at Kobey's house?" "I didn't know any of them. Kara called them her father's business associates. I think she knew but didn't want to tell me." "Did they say how they planned to kill Bolles?" "I heard them say, 'Blow him away,' which can mean a lot of things. Kara told me also that she heard her dad talking with Ned Warren, who she called Uncle Ned, about killing Bolles." "What did you do after you heard this discussion about murder?" "Keep in mind that I was an informant. I considered myself a police officer. Well, I thought I had great information and that I'd be viewed as a hero, so I went to Sergeant Bob Powers. I remember the date. May tenth. I told Powers what I had. When I didn't hear anything, I went to him two more times." "When were these two other times?" "Both in May." "What did Powers say?" "He didn't say much. Mostly listened to my information. After Bolles was killed, I was really shook up, as you can imagine. I'd told Powers it was going to happen, and it did. I got more seared when no one came around to see me." "What did you do?" "A couple of weeks later, I went to the Arizona attorney general's office and talked to a Mr. Wolf." "Who is Mr. Wolf?" "An investigator for the attorney general. I told him what I'd overheard at Monte Kobey's house and about telling Powers. Wolf thanked me, said he'd look into it, and I never heard from him again." "Did you ever get in touch with the feds?" "Yes. I went to the FBI. They acted the same as Wolf: 'Okay. Thanks a lot. We'll look into it.' And that's the last I heard from the FBI." "Did you talk to anybody else?" "Yeah. When the authorities wouldn't do anything, I went to the press. I talked to some of those reporters who came to Arizona." "The IRE team?" "Yeah. They weren't interested either." I turned off the tape recorder and stared at JoDon. A dozen thoughts zoomed in and out of my head, vying for attention. Clearly, one question was paramount: Was JoDon telling the truth? "Will you tell the authorities what you told me?" "I already did. But, yes, I'll tell them again, with one provision. I want immunity for that phony hash bust. I didn't ask for anything before. I'm not asking for much now." The arrest didn't make sense to me, unless something else was factored in. JoDon was a prize informant. The cops don't bust people like JoDon for a twenty-dollar sale of hashish. "I'll see what I can do about getting you immunity," I said. Ought to be a piece of cake, I thought. A twenty-dollar drug sale? They passed out immunity for murder like handbills on the street, and at that often obtaining false information in return. Good information-and deep in my heart I felt JoDon told the truth-should swing the deal. Arizona Attorney General Bob Corbin, Assistant Attorney General William Schafer, Don Devereux, and I sat in Corbin's office. We had just listened to JoDon's tape-recorded statement, and each one of us had typed transcripts of the interview. "In exchange for his testimony," I said, "JoDon wants immunity for that twenty-dollar drug bust." Corbin and Schafer looked at each other. "It's up to Schafer," Corbin said. A classic case of passing the buck. Like spectators at a tennis match, Devereux and I swung our eyes to the man who prosecuted Robison and Dunlap. "What JoDon says on this recording," Schafer said, "is too vague. Too vague? It seemed clear enough to me. JoDon said he'd overheard the murder being discussed a month before Don Bolles was killed. Unless one believed in psychic powers, that those people JoDon overheard were divining the future murder of Don Bolles, this deserved top-priority attention. I looked hard at Schafer, never letting myself forget that he'd worked hand in glove with Jon Sellers to put Dunlap and Robison on death row. "Mr. Headley," Schafer said, almost choking on the mister, "we just can't out of hand give immunity to drug dealers." "Assistant Attorney General Schafer," I said, almost choking on the assistant attorney general, "you didn't have any trouble with that immunity given to Neal Roberts." The previously chilly atmosphere in Corbin's office turned downright frigid. Corbin and Schafer didn't like me, feelings that on a totally impersonal basis I reciprocated. They tolerated Devereux, who as a reporter could cause them some harm, and I imagined they'd bow and scrape to Jonathan Marshall, a newspaper owner. If we met again, I'd ask Marshall to come along. I briefly argued about the "too vague" dismissal of JoDon's statement, but saw Schafer wasn't going to budge. "Bring him in here," Schafer said. "JoDon's not coming back without immunity," I said. "And I don't think you'll extradite him for twenty dollars. How about if I get you another tape?" "We're always willing to listen," Schafer said. Listening wasn't good enough. Listening didn't accomplish anything. Schafer could listen right up to the moment news bulletins announced Dunlap and Robison's execution at the state prison. "In the meantime," I said, "you might ask Powers and Wolf why they did nothing with the information JoDon gave them." Wolf and Powers were contacted, brushing off their inaction by saying they "didn't think it had any value." When I learned of the "no value" remarks, I got even hotter. JoDon had reported a murder plot, and the murder happened. Powers tacked on an additional excuse: the case belonged to the Phoenix police department, not Scottsdale's. This didn't wash with me at all. Many years before, as a Las Vegas sheriff's detective, when I had knowledge of crimes being handled by another jurisdiction, departmental policy and common sense dictated that I share the information. Frustration mounted. Robison was continuing to starve himself and had lost forty pounds. He'd had a dizzy spell and injured himself in a fall in his cell. I didn't doubt he'd carry through to the finish. Pleas wouldn't stop him. The only hope, I thought, was information so encouraging that he could see an alternate outcome to death. The JoDon information, I thought, together with everything else, might change Robison's mind. But not if Schafer sandbagged. I doubted that confessions from Monte Kobey and Bradley Funk eyewitnessed by five nuns could change Schafer's mind. He stood to lose too much. Who would want to be remembered as the man who prosecuted the wrong defendants in a case as major as the Bolles murder? To obtain justice, I believed, we'd probably have to go under, around, and over William Schafer III. Before flying back to New Orleans, another round-trip expense that further dug into my meager savings, I played the JoDon tape for Phoenix detectives assigned to the Bolles investigation, Lonzo McCracken and Mike Butler. They weren't any more impressed than Schafer had been. At the New Orleans Hilton I obtained a second, more detailed, tape from JoDon. Then, fearing I might lose this most valuable witness, I flew him to Albuquerque, New Mexico, and left him in the care of Bill Hume, who had worked on the IRE team. Putting him in this safe house won me a measure of trust from the jittery JoDon. I returned to Phoenix and arranged another meeting in Corbin's office. Present along with Schafer, Corbin, Devereux, and myself were Jon Sellers (now retired from the Phoenix police force and, outrageously I believed, working for the attorney general's office on the Bolles case), publisher Jonathan Marshall, and Marshall's attorney. This time we had brought some clout. We listened to JoDon's taped account of the conversation he'd heard at Monte Kobey's house, and how no one in law enforcement seemed interested when he told them. JoDon's statement jibed exactly with the first tape, but the presence of Marshall and his lawyer meant we couldn't be shoved aside so easily. "I'll bring JoDon in," I said, "but first he needs immunity on the drug beef." "He'll have to pass a polygraph test," Corbin said. "That's fine," I said. I thought of Robison and Dunlap. "What more can you guys want? Neal Roberts wasn't asked to take any lie detector test. Tell me you'll give JoDon immunity if he passes the polygraph, and let's get this circus on the road where it belongs." Corbin looked at Schafer. "Get it done," Corbin said in a level voice. I called my son Lake III in Las Vegas and asked him to meet me in Albuquerque. Lake, twenty-three, was a big strapping young man, smart, who worked on a construction crew. He'd helped me on other cases, and for the Bolles investigation he brought two essentials I needed: he'd do exactly what I told him and I could trust him implicitly. Lake and I transferred JoDon to Phoenix, and I put them up in another hotel. They were the same age, and I figured they'd get along with each other. Most important, Lake would be with him every second, insuring that the understandably nervous JoDon (I'd received a phone call threatening his life) wouldn't bolt. I took five sworn affidavits from JoDon, all attesting to what he'd first told me in New Orleans. He breezed through a polygraph examination and was questioned intensively while in a hypnotic trance. The conclusion: JoDon was telling the absolute truth. Devereux arranged for attorney Victor Aranow to work out the immunity agreement with William Schafer. When Aranow called Schafer, he found himself talking to Corbin instead. "I'm ready," Aranow said, "to surrender Michael JoDon at any time after we draw up the immunity agreement." "We can't do that," Corbin said, "until Schafer gets back." "From where?" "Israel. He's gone to Israel, and won't be back for two weeks." "Screw this!" I said when Aranow related his conversation with Corbin. "This is the most important murder case they'll ever handle, and they just keep stalling, playing with it, toying with us. I say screw them." Angry didn't begin to describe how I felt. One of JoDon's sworn affidavits had contained the following startling revelations: Shortly after the Don Bolles homicide I had occasion to have a lengthy conversation with [my friend] Mike Decker. In this conversation Mike Decker related information to which he was privy due to his mother Joan Decker's position as legal secretary to Phoenix attorney Marvin Johnson. Decker told me he knew that Neal Roberts had gotten money from H. Monte M. Kobey for the murder of Don Bolles. Decker further related that Roberts had given money, several thousand dollars, to Gail Owens on more than one occasion. I received a second telephone death threat against JoDon and jotted down the names of the few people who knew about the entrance of our star witness into the case. I couldn't expect JoDon to hang around and be a sitting target for two more weeks until Schafer got back from a vacation or whatever he was doing in Israel. The best way to handle thisI'd known it from the beginning but made the mistake of trying to play by established rules-was to go public with everything. I told Aranow I was going to call a press conference, and I told myself to get loaded for bear. pps. 141-160 --[cont]-- Aloha, He'Ping, Om, Shalom, Salaam. Em Hotep, Peace Be, Omnia Bona Bonis, All My Relations. Adieu, Adios, Aloha. Amen. Roads End Kris DECLARATION & DISCLAIMER ========== CTRL is a discussion and informational exchange list. Proselyzting propagandic screeds are not allowed. Substance—not soapboxing! These are sordid matters and 'conspiracy theory', with its many half-truths, misdirections and outright frauds is used politically by different groups with major and minor effects spread throughout the spectrum of time and thought. That being said, CTRL gives no endorsement to the validity of posts, and always suggests to readers; be wary of what you read. 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