Frank Abagnale "Catch Me If You Can" Frank William Abagnale, Jr. (born April 27, 1948) is an American security consultant known for his history as a former confidence trickster, check forger, impostor, and escape artist. He became notorious in the 1960s for passing $2.5 million worth of meticulously forged checks across 26 countries over the course of five years, beginning when he was 16 years old. In the process, he became one of the most famous impostors ever, claiming to have assumed no fewer than eight separate identities as an airline pilot, a doctor, a U.S. Bureau of Prisons agent, and a lawyer. He escaped from police custody twice (once from a taxiing airliner and once from a U.S. federal penitentiary), before he was 21 years old. He served fewer than five years in prison before starting to work for the federal government. He is a consultant and lecturer at the academy and field offices for the FBI. He also runs Abagnale & Associates, a financial fraud consultancy company. Abagnale's life story provided the inspiration for the feature film Catch Me If You Can, as well as the Broadway musical with the same name, which opened in April 2011, and ghostwritten autobiography of the same name. First con His first victim was his father who gave Frank a gas credit card and a truck to assist him in commuting to his part-time job. Frank Jr. devised a scheme to help pay for his dates with women. He used the credit card to "buy" tires, batteries, and other car-related items at gas stations. He made a deal with the attendants in which they gave him cash in return for them keeping the products. Ultimately, his father was liable for a bill of several thousand dollars. Bank fraud Abagnale's first confidence trick was writing personal checks on his own overdrawn account. This, however, would only work for a limited time before the bank demanded payment, so he moved on to opening other accounts in different banks, eventually creating new identities to sustain this charade. Over time, he experimented and developed different ways of defrauding banks, such as printing out his own almost-perfect copies of checks, depositing them and persuading banks to advance him cash on the basis of money in his accounts. One of Abagnale's famous tricks was to print his account number on blank deposit slips and add them to the stack of real blank slips in the bank. This meant that the deposits written on those slips by bank customers ended up going into his account rather than that of the legitimate customers. In a speech, Frank described one instance where he noticed the location where airlines and car rental businesses such as United Airlines and Hertz would drop off their daily collections of money in a zip-up bag and deposit it into a drop box on the airport premises. Using a security guard disguise he bought at a local costume shop, he put a sign over the box saying "out of service, place deposits with security guard on duty" and collected money that way. Later he disclosed how he could not believe this idea had actually worked, stating with some astonishment: "How can a drop box be out of service?" Impersonations Airline pilot Pan American World Airways estimated that between the ages of 16 and 18, Abagnale flew over 1,000,000 miles on over 250 flights and flew to 26 countries, at Pan Am's expense, by deadheading. He was also able to stay at hotels for free during this time. Everything from food to lodging was billed to the airline. Abagnale stated that he was often invited by actual pilots to take the controls of the plane in-flight. On one occasion, he was offered the courtesy of flying at 30,000 feet. He took the controls, and enabled the autopilot, "very much aware that I had been handed custody of 140 lives, my own included ... because I couldn't fly a kite". Teaching assistant He forged a Columbia University degree and taught sociology at Brigham Young University for a semester, working as a teaching assistant by the name of Frank Adams. Doctor For eleven months he impersonated a chief resident pediatrician in a Georgia hospital under the alias Frank Conners. He chose this course after he was nearly arrested disembarking a flight in New Orleans. Afraid of possible capture, he retired temporarily to Georgia. When filling out a rental application he impulsively listed his occupation as "doctor", fearing that the owner might check with Pan Am if he wrote "pilot". After befriending a real doctor who lived in the same apartment complex, he agreed to act as resident supervisor of interns as a favor until the local hospital could find someone else to take the job. The position was not difficult for Abagnale because supervisors did no real medical work. However, he was nearly exposed when an infant almost died from oxygen deprivation; he had no idea what a nurse meant when she said there was a "blue baby". He was able to fake his way through most of his duties by letting the interns handle the cases coming in during his late-night shift, setting broken bones and other mundane tasks. When the hospital found a replacement he returned to piloting, leaving only after he realized he could put lives at risk by his inability to respond to situations like the blue baby. Attorney Abagnale forged a Harvard University law transcript, passed the bar exam of Louisiana and got a job at the Louisiana Attorney General's office at the age of nineteen. This happened while he was posing as Pan Am First Officer "Robert Black." He told a stewardess he had briefly dated that he was also a Harvard law student, and she introduced him to a lawyer friend. Abagnale was told the bar needed more lawyers and was offered a chance to apply. After making a fake transcript from Harvard, he prepared himself for the compulsory exam. Despite failing twice, he claims to have passed the bar exam legitimately on the third try after eight weeks of study, because "Louisiana at the time allowed you to take the Bar over and over as many times as you needed. It was really a matter of eliminating what you got wrong." In his biography, he described the premise of his legal job as a "gopher boy" who simply fetched coffee and books for his boss. However, there was a real Harvard graduate who also worked for that attorney general, and he hounded Abagnale with questions about his tenure at Harvard. Naturally, Abagnale could not answer questions about a university he had never attended, and he later resigned after eight months to protect himself, after learning the suspicious graduate was making inquiries into his background. Capture and imprisonment Abagnale was eventually caught in France in 1969 when an Air France attendant he had dated in the past recognized him and notified the police. When the French police apprehended him, 12 of the countries in which he had committed fraud sought his extradition. After a two-day trial, he first served prison time in Perpignan's House of Arrest in France—a one-year sentence that was reduced by the presiding judge at his trial to six months. At Perpignan he was held nude in a tiny, filthy, lightless cell that he was never allowed to leave. The cell lacked toilet facilities, a mattress, or a blanket, and food and water were severely restricted. He was then extradited to Sweden where he was treated fairly well under Swedish law. During trial for forgery, his defense attorney almost had his case dismissed by arguing that he had "created" the fake checks and not forged them, but his charges were instead reduced to swindling and fraud. He served six months in a Malmö prison, only to learn at the end of it he would be tried next in Italy. Later, a Swedish judge asked a U.S. State Department official to revoke his passport. Without a valid passport, the Swedish authorities were legally compelled to deport him to the United States, where he was sentenced to 12 years in a federal prison for multiple counts of forgery. Alleged escapes While being deported to the U.S., Abagnale escaped from a British VC-10 airliner as it was turning onto a taxi strip at New York's JFK International Airport. Under cover of night, he scaled a nearby fence and hailed a cab to Grand Central Terminal. After stopping in The Bronx to change clothes and pick up a set of keys to a Montreal bank safe deposit box containing US$20,000, Abagnale caught a train to Montreal's Dorval airport to purchase a ticket to São Paulo, Brazil, a country with which the U.S. had no extradition treaty. On his way to Montreal, he had a close call at a Mac's Milk in Dundas, Ontario. He was later caught by a constable of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police while standing in line at the ticket counter and subsequently handed over to the U.S. Border Patrol. Being sentenced to 12 years in the Federal Correction Institution at Petersburg, Virginia, in April 1971, Abagnale also reportedly escaped the Federal Detention Center in Atlanta, Georgia while awaiting trial, which he considers in his book to be one of the most infamous escapes in history. During the time, U.S. prisons were being condemned by civil rights groups and investigated by congressional committees. In a stroke of luck that included the accompanying U.S. marshal forgetting his detention commitment papers, Abagnale was mistaken for an undercover prison inspector and was even given privileges and food far better than the other inmates. The FDC in Atlanta had already lost two employees as a result of reports written by undercover federal agents, and Abagnale took advantage of their vulnerability. He contacted a friend (called in his book "Jean Sebring") who posed as his fiancée and slipped him the business card of "Inspector C.W. Dunlap" of the Bureau of Prisons, which she had obtained by posing as a freelance writer doing an article on "fire safety measures in federal detention centers". She also handed over a business card from "Sean O'Riley" (later revealed to be Joe Shea), the FBI agent in charge of Abagnale's case, which she doctored at a stationery print shop. Abagnale told the corrections officers that he was indeed a prison inspector and handed over Dunlap's business card as proof. He told them that he needed to contact FBI Agent Sean O'Riley, on a matter of urgent business. O'Riley's phone number (actually the number altered by Sebring) was dialed and picked up by Jean Sebring, at a payphone in an Atlanta shopping-mall, posing as an operator at the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Later, he was allowed to meet unsupervised with O'Riley in a predetermined car outside the detention center. Sebring, incognito, picked Abagnale up and drove him to an Atlanta bus station where he took a Greyhound bus to New York, and soon thereafter, a train to Washington, D.C. Abagnale bluffed his way through an attempted capture by posing as an FBI agent after being recognized by a motel registration clerk. Still bent on making his way to Brazil, Abagnale was picked up a few weeks later by two NYPD detectives when he inadvertently walked past their unmarked police car. Legitimate jobs In 1974, after he had served less than five years, the United States federal government released him on the condition that he would help the federal authorities without pay against crimes committed by fraud and scam artists, and sign in once a week. Not wanting to return to his family in New York, he left the choice of parole up to the court, and it was decided that he would be paroled in Texas. After his release, Abagnale tried several jobs, including cook, grocer, and movie projectionist, but he was fired from most of these upon having his criminal career discovered via background checks and not informing his employers that he was a former convict. Finding them unsatisfying, he approached a bank with an offer. He explained to the bank what he had done, and offered to speak to the bank's staff and show various tricks that "paperhangers" use to defraud banks. His offer included the condition that if they did not find his speech helpful, they would owe him nothing; otherwise, they would only owe him $500 with an agreement that they would provide his name to other banks. The banks were impressed by the results, and he began a legitimate life as a security consultant. He later founded Abagnale & Associates, which advises businesses on fraud. Abagnale is now a millionaire through his legal fraud detection and avoidance consulting business based in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Abagnale also continues to advise the FBI, with whom he has associated for over 35 years, by teaching at the FBI Academy and lecturing for FBI field offices throughout the country. According to his website, more than 14,000 institutions have adopted Abagnale's fraud prevention programs. He lives in Charleston, South Carolina with his wife, whom he married one year after becoming legitimate. They have three sons, including one who currently works for the FBI. Abagnale and Joe Shea, the FBI agent on whom the character of Carl Hanratty was based for the film Catch Me If You Can, remained close friends until Shea's death. Veracity of claims The authenticity of Abagnale's criminal exploits were questioned even before the publishing of Catch Me If You Can. In 1978, after Abagnale had been a featured speaker at an anti-crime seminar, a San Francisco Chronicle reporter looked into his assertions. Phone calls to banks, schools, hospitals and other institutions Abagnale mentioned turned up no evidence of his cons under the aliases he used. Abagnale's response was that "Due to the embarrassment involved, I doubt if anyone would confirm the information." In 2002, Abagnale himself addressed the issue of his story's truthfulness rather vaguely with a statement posted on his company's website. The statement said in part "I was interviewed by the co-writer only about four times. I believe he did a great job of telling the story, but he also over-dramatized and exaggerated some of the story. That was his style and what the editor wanted. He always reminded me that he was just telling a story and not writing my biography." http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frank_Abagnale
“Crazy Eddie” – Eddie Antar THE CON: Crazy Eddie was a family business that grew into a huge chain of electronics stores with rock-bottom prices. It was also a criminal operation driven by lies and phony inventory. THE DAMAGE: Shareholders lost as much as $100 million - about $188 million today. THE OUTCOME: Sam Antar, the company accountant, testified for a reduced sentence. His cousin, Eddie Antar, went on the lam; he was extradited from Israel and spent nearly 8 years in prison. "The prices are insaaaaane!" If you lived anywhere near New York City in the 1980s, you almost couldn’t escape from Crazy Eddie. The discount electronics stores were all over the Northeast; flip on a TV, and you’d inevitably catch an ad. The wild-eyed character in those Crazy Eddie ads, who ranted about the “insaaaaaaane” deals, was hard to ignore. But it wasn’t just aggressive marketing behind the company’s success. From phony inventory to fictitious earnings, nothing about Crazy Eddie was as it appeared. Eddie Antar opened his first electronics store in 1969 with his father, Sam. From the start, he stocked the shelves of his Brooklyn store with the lowest priced electronics. With those prices, Antar broke the fair trade laws that forced retailers to sell their goods at prices set by the manufacturers. The deals, and the store’s loose atmosphere, attracted consumers. Why shop at a stuffy department store when you could listen to a stereo at top volume and get it for a better price at Crazy Eddie? By 1973, the store was recording sales of more than $100 million. Beyond that boom, Antar had little tricks for creating profit. He hired nearly every member of his family and paid them off the books. He declined to report cash sales to the IRS and collected insurance claims for fires and floods that never happened. His cousin, Sam Antar, handled the company’s crooked finances; he estimated they skimmed about $1 for every $5 that came in. As the dollars piled up, the Antars expanded their empire. By 1984, there were 39 Crazy Eddie stores across the Northeast. Even people who didn’t shop for bargain electronics knew about the chain; endless commercials with an actor talking fast and frantic created a memorable brand for Crazy Eddie and carved out its place in the popular culture. Antar also relied on his shrewd intuition to assess consumer interest in the latest technology. When VCR’s and compact disk players hit the market, he made sure people knew to come to Crazy Eddie for the best deals. Annual sales climbed to $350 million in 1984, but Antar wanted more. He wanted to take Crazy Eddie public. Before the initial public offering, an auditor came in to take stock of the company. The auditor didn’t realize that many of the boxes of inventory he saw piled to the ceiling were empty – or that the attractive saleswoman who climbed a stepladder to assist in the tally was calling down fictitious numbers. The ploy to overstate the company’s assets worked and, in 1984, Crazy Eddie went public and sold two million shares at $8 apiece. This wild overstating of inventory became a profitable pattern for the Antars. At the end of 1985, the family nudged the numbers $2 million above what actually existed in their warehouse. Crazy Eddie stock looked terrific and rose to as much as $21 per share. Antar made about $68 million by selling his stock. Between that windfall, the brisk sales and all that was skimmed off the top, cash poured in quickly and at a tremendous volume. To avoid paying taxes, the Antars took monthly trips to Israel – with huge amounts of cash literally strapped to their bodies. The courier would land in Tel Aviv and deposit the funds into a bank; those funds were then wired to an account in one of a handful of countries where the family had dummy companies. Slowly, the money was pulled out of Panama and deposited – at specific moments timed around an audit – into several Crazy Eddie bank accounts. Of course, those deposits were booked as revenue. The scam, and the Antar family, came apart in 1987. Antar’s father and his two brothers, who held important positions at the company, were fired or resigned. On top of a bitter family feud, the cash flow necessary to sustain the fraud dried up. As other retail outlets adopted Crazy Eddie’s low prices, the market became saturated with cheap electronics. At the end of the first quarter of 1987, Crazy Eddie profits dropped 93 percent. Antar sold his stake in the business in 1987. It didn’t take the new owners long to discover that only half the amount of inventory listed on the books actually existed. Within two years, Crazy Eddie declared bankruptcy. When the SEC filed an action against Eddie Antar in late 1989, he fled the country. He hid in Israel for two and a half years before being captured and extradited. While on the lam, his cousin Sam Antar pleaded guilty to fraud and agreed to testify against his family for a more lenient sentence. During Eddie Antar’s trial, he said he disappeared to avoid his ex-wife's play for alimony. His defense attorney argued that the mastermind of the con was actually Sam Antar – who received house arrest in exchange for his testimony. The jury was not convinced. Eddie Antar was convicted in 1993 of conspiracy, racketeering and securities and mail fraud. He served eight years of his 12 ½ year sentence. In 2007, Crazy Eddie returned to the spotlight when Eddie and his cousin, Sam, appeared together on CNBC's “Business Nation.” In their first meeting in 20 years, Sam Antar confronted his cousin on-air, telling him to own up to his crime: “I stayed there and I took the heat,” he said. “You ran – you ran like a coward!” Today, Sam Antar has a website where he maintains a blog, and calendar of speaking engagements. Eddie Antar lives a quiet life in his native Brooklyn.
How the F.B.I. Finally Caught Aldrich Ames By David Johnston January 27, 1995 One day in September 1993, four months after the F.B.I. had begun its espionage investigation of Aldrich H. Ames, the agents tracking him got their first chance to catch him in an act of spying. But nothing went right. Mr. Ames eluded them twice, once by awakening uncharacteristically early to drop off a message to his Russian contacts and again, later in the day, by escaping a stakeout at the parking lot of the Central Intelligence Agency's headquarters in Langley, Va. -- driving off "like a bat out of hell," one official recalls now. That day came to be known within the Federal Bureau of Investigation as Black Thursday. But, in an inquiry that careered like a roller coaster, the F.B.I. got its first big break just a few days later. Ignoring the warnings of their superiors, agents pilfered Mr. Ames's household trash, switching refuse cans in a nighttime operation that yielded a decisive find: a torn-up draft of a note from the suspect to his Russian handlers. A few weeks later, Federal agents broke into Mr. Ames's house and, in a search authorized by the Attorney General, found in his computer a wealth of incriminating data, including his procedures for secret communications with the Russians. F.B.I. officials, including senior investigators who supervised the inquiry and agents who ran it in the field, have previously been under strict orders not to discuss it. Now, almost a year after Mr. Ames's arrest, those officials, in response to numerous requests, have talked about the case in a series of interviews in recent days. Although Mr. Ames was able to elude detection for nearly nine years, those interviewed are clearly proud of their investigation's successful conclusion. This despite a House Intelligence Committee report that has criticized the bureau's officials for a "wait and see" approach to finding a spy who had done great damage to American intelligence. Mr. Ames, a counterintelligence officer in the C.I.A.'s Soviet division, began providing information to the Kremlin in 1985 and continued doing so until his arrest, along with that of his wife, Rosario, at their home outside Washington last Feb. 21. Over the years, the K.G.B. and its successor agencies in Russia paid him more than $2.5 million, in exchange for which he compromised more than a hundred Western intelligence operations and in effect sent at least 10 men to their death by identifying them as agents of the West. Mr. Ames last year pleaded guilty to spying for Moscow, and his wife pleaded guilty to a lesser espionage offense. He is serving a life sentence at a Federal prison in Allenwood, Pa. She is serving a five-year sentence in Danbury, Conn. The F.B.I.'s involvement in the case began with a fruitless analytical effort undertaken in the late 1980's, after two of the bureau's premier double agents, both K.G.B. men in Washington, had been recalled by Moscow and executed. In its search for the betrayer of the two men, the F.B.I. focused on Edward Lee Howard, a junior C.I.A. officer who had defected to Moscow. But the bureau concluded that although Mr. Howard might have known the identity of one man, he had not known the identity of the other. The search was then largely dormant until 1991, when officials of the intelligence agency told the F.B.I. of a string of operational disasters that could be explained only by the presence of a mole inside American intelligence. "What revived it was we realized how badly we'd been hurt," said Robert M. Bryant, then agent in charge at the F.B.I.'s Washington field office, who is now the bureau's top national security official. That realization led to the first large-scale cooperative counterintelligence inquiry by the F.B.I. and the C.I.A., an agency that had never before shared its operational files with its law-enforcement counterpart. Feuding between the two agencies dated from the era of J. Edgar Hoover, who died in 1972 after 48 years as F.B.I. Director. And it did not end with the decision to work together on the mole case. Mr. Bryant, a blunt lawyer from Little Rock, Ark., known within the bureau as the Bear, was a hardened criminal investigator who, angered by a C.I.A. culture of concealment that he thought was slowing the inquiry, clashed with his counterparts at the intelligence agency. His shouted threats to prosecute C.I.A. officers for obstruction of justice kept other F.B.I. officials scrambling to smooth over strained relations. Gradually, though, the investigators narrowed their list of suspects, largely as a result of a huge analytical effort that sought to track even the hour-by-hour movements of Russian officials in Washington back in the mid-1980's. Mr. Ames made every list. As an expert on Soviet affairs, he had had direct access to data on many of the operations involving the compromised agents. Moreover, C.I.A. officials had by then found hundreds of thousands of dollars flowing into his bank accounts from unexplained sources, and some of the deposits had been made shortly after his known meetings with a Russian Embassy official. On May 24, 1993, two weeks after the criminal investigation of Mr. Ames had formally begun, Mr. Bryant turned to Leslie G. Wiser Jr., a former Navy lawyer who ran an F.B.I. counterintelligence squad, to assemble a team of about eight agents, supported by dozens of technical and support specialists. They watched and waited. Then came Black Thursday. From their wiretaps on Mr. Ames's home telephone, agents had previously picked up cryptic comments suggesting that he was getting ready to deliver, imminently, a package to the Russians. But by the time surveillance units arrived at his home at 6:30 that morning, he had not only left -- subsequent review of videotape from a camera mounted across the street showed that he had departed at 6:03 -- but indeed already returned. "That was really unusual, because Ames was not really a particularly industrious guy," Mr. Bryant said. "For him to move out at 6:03 in the morning meant something was up." That afternoon, a surveillance team waited outside the C.I.A.'s main gates, hoping to follow Mr. Ames from his office at the agency's headquarters to a drop site. The agency's security guards, unaware of the operation, had rousted surveillance teams from the roadside once before, forcing them to pull back far from the exit. Around 4 P.M., Mr. Ames climbed into his Jaguar and in a moment had turned onto the George Washington Parkway. "And the guy gets out on the G. W. Parkway and just takes off like a bat out of hell," Mr. Bryant said. "And we lose him." The Director of Central Intelligence and the F.B.I. Director both knew that Mr. Ames was under surveillance that day. When they heard that he had escaped, they started "asking a lot of very painful questions," Mr. Bryant said. That night, Mr. Wiser said, he experienced "the depths of despair." But he was sure of at least one thing: Mr. Ames was behaving like a spy. After the setback, Mr. Wiser's superiors were wary of the step he next proposed: a search of Mr. Ames's trash. Mr. Bryant, fearful of aggressive moves that might alert the suspect that he was under surveillance, by his own account told Mr. Wiser: "Les, I don't think that's a very good idea. If we get burned on this thing, we can't ride too much heat." Mr. Wiser remembers matters a little differently. By his recollection, Mr. Bryant had at one point suspended garbage searches in the case but had not permanently barred them. In any event, Mr. Wiser decided to go ahead with the trash search, and on the night of Sept. 15, 1993, a black van with an open side door crawled silently up North Randolph Street toward the Ameses' house in wealthy suburban Arlington, Va. With Mr. Ames out of town -- he had gone to Ankara, Turkey, on C.I.A. work -- the time seemed right to take the offensive. The van slowed to a stop. A surveillance team leaped out, took the Ameses' trash can and replaced it with one from inside the van. (Later, after examining the refuse at another location, they would return the original can.) From the garbage, the agents picked out fragments of yellow paper -- a Post-It note, torn up and tossed away. Fitted almost entirely back together, the message read: "I am ready to meet at B on 1 Oct. "I cannot read North 13-19 Sept. "If you will meet at B on 1 Oct. Pls signal North "w [ piece missing ] of 20 Sept. to confi [ missing ] "No message at Pipe "If you cannot see [ missing ] 1 Oct. signal North after 27 Sept. with message at Pipe." The agents quickly deciphered the note. It was a draft, written by Mr. Ames and then rejected by him, of a message to his handlers. "North" and "Pipe" referred to locations -- signal sites or drops where he could leave or get messages and pick up money. "B" referred to Bogota, Colombia, where he and his handlers were to meet. The agents sent the note to a laboratory for analysis and woke Mr. Wiser at home. Within an hour, in early morning, he was at his office, examining a black and white photograph of the note. "If there was a reservoir of doubt that existed before -- which there was, this little bit of doubt about what was really going on here -- it was gone," Mr. Wiser said. "We knew now. We had the right guy, for sure." When Mr. Bryant arrived at his office at the usual time later that morning, he saw Mr. Wiser grinning triumphantly. "I thought, 'Holy God, this is unusual,' " Mr. Bryant said. "Wiser looked like the Halloween pumpkin. I mean, he was so happy it was unbelievable. And that's when he came up with that note. In 27 years in the F.B.I., that's probably my favorite document." Later, Mr. Bryant would gladly forgive Mr. Wiser's disobedience in going ahead with the trash search. "That," he said, "is the finest piece of insubordination I've ever seen." http://www.nytimes.com/1995/01/27/us/how-the-fbi-finally-caught-aldrich-ames.html?pagewanted=all&src=pm
Author Jeffrey Archer's life would make a great novel May 2, 2008 By Jeffrey Stinson, USA TODAY LONDON — Boy from humble background hustles his way to Oxford, runs track for Britain, becomes wealthy as a whiz-kid fundraiser, owns an art gallery and wins a Tory seat in Parliament at age 29. Then, he loses it all in a dodgy investment. He comes back as a fiction writer at 34 and earns a fortune. He pays off his debts, returns to Tory party politics, becomes a British lord and is close to becoming mayor of London. Then, at 61, he goes to prison for having lied about being with a prostitute. Jeffrey Archer, the popular storyteller, disgraced politician, British peer and perjurer in real life, is rising from the ashes of personal disaster yet again, at age 67. "Yes," he says, "I'm incredibly resilient and willing to fight back." He has been out of prison for five years now, back in his Thames River penthouse overlooking Parliament. He goes over to the House of Lords every couple of weeks. He hosts his famed Champagne and shepherd's pie Christmas parties, which he says attract 400 revelers. And he says he raised about $4 million for charity last year. Archer's latest phoenix-like rise isn't complete, however. He's not atop the best-seller list. He hopes to climb there with his 14th work of fiction, A Prisoner of Birth, in stores Tuesday. "I've worked harder on this book than any book in my life," he says. "I think it's the best thing I've ever done." Always a promoter, Archer says the pre-publication buzz for Prisoner reminds him of that for his most acclaimed novel, 1979's Kane & Abel, which became an international best seller. A modern 'Monte Cristo' A Prisoner of Birth is an updated take on one of Archer's favorite tales, Alexandre Dumas' 19th-century Count of Monte Cristo, in which a wrongly accused man is sent to prison, escapes, grabs a fortune and exacts revenge. In Archer's 2008 version, hero Danny Cartwright is an illiterate dropout from the skids of modern-day East London who is arrested on his engagement day on charges of murdering his fiancée's brother. Testifying against him are four upper-crust antagonists — a lawyer, a soap actor, a real estate agent and an aristocrat. Danny is sentenced to London's high-security Belmarsh prison for 22 years. There, a tutor helps him learn to read and write, escape and claim a fortune. Danny then plots his revenge. As in many of his books, Archer has drawn on autobiographical experience and turned it to literary advantage. "The author's firsthand knowledge of prison life and legal maneuvers helps make this a thoroughly enjoyable entertainment," Publishers Weekly said. During his own time housed at Belmarsh, Archer helped inmates work on their appeals while drawing on them for characters for his fiction. He even tutored a student who earned the equivalent of a bachelor's degree. "He's a murderer who hated me because I was a right-wing Tory," Archer says. "But I said, 'What are you going to do for the next 26 years in here?' " When the inmate earned his degree, Archer says, he returned for his graduation ceremony. Archer also wrote a trilogy of prison diaries, in which he chronicled demoralizing conditions, the monotony of daily existence and policies that he says fail to prepare inmates for society when they are paroled. One of the messages he hopes Prisoner conveys is that prisons have a large number of "quite normal human beings … who are trying to survive." A gifted storyteller Archer says he has always had a gift for telling tales. He's full of charming or personal anecdotes, gossip on the famous and inside political stories. When in storytelling form, his Richard Burton-like clipped manner of speech turns dramatic, with theatrical pauses and an exaggerated voice. But his storytelling has been a source of woe as well as success. His career is pockmarked with exaggeration, when the truth of his stratospheric success and meteoric collapses would, as his own website proclaims, "make an international bestseller." He also has let stand uncorrected some apocryphal details on his life in news clippings when they have worked to his advantage. Archer's ability to make the best of a situation can be traced to his Oxford days. He grew up in seaside Weston on England's west coast. His father was a printer but died when Archer was 14. "The Archers had hardly any money," Jonathan Mantle wrote in an unauthorized 1988 biography. Archer gained admittance to Oxford for a year's program, but finagled his way into a three-year education on charm, hustle and athletic ability running the sprints in track. He first rose to national attention there by pledging to raise 1 million pounds, close to $2 million in today's money, for the charity Oxfam and for getting a sensational new music group, The Beatles, to sign onto the campaign. According to Mantle's book, Archer claimed to have enlisted The Beatles when all he really had was a photo taken with them holding up the charity poster. Rather than suffer bad publicity by not backing the charity, Mantle wrote, The Beatles endorsed Archer's effort. That initial public relations coup led to a profitable post-college fundraising business, ownership of an art gallery and an early entry into politics. "I was always a raconteur," Archer says. "What I was surprised to learn was that if you put it on paper, you got paid for it." It was a pleasant surprise after he lost his small fortune in a scam Canadian cleaning company. Faced with bankruptcy, Archer resigned from the House of Commons. Figuring he would never repay his debts with a 9-to-5 job, he sat down each morning and afternoon five days a week for a year with the intent to write a best seller. The result was the successful Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less in 1974. It is a story of four people who were defrauded by a shady businessman and join to recover their losses by pulling off a series of stings. The story launched Archer's rise. It also relaunched his political career. He became an intimate adviser to former Tory prime ministers Margaret Thatcher and John Major, which led him to a lordship — until his storytelling got the better of him again. In 1999, just as he became the Tory candidate for mayor of London, Archer faced another tribulation. He was charged with perjury and conspiracy to pervert justice for having lied in a 1987 libel trial, in which he had sued the Star newspaper for saying he was with a prostitute. Although he won the libel trial, he lost the perjury trial. One of the witnesses who had testified that Archer was with him when he allegedly was with the prostitute recanted. Archer's price to pay: having to withdraw from the mayor's race, a prison sentence and another fall to the bottom. He was blacklisted by the party but got to keep his title of lord. Archer left prison after two years and has been on the comeback trail since. He refuses to talk about the trials. But he vows he has learned his lesson and is more accurate in what he says for the public record. And although he still loves politics, he knows his political career is over. "I assumed when I came out of prison no one would talk to me," he says. "The shock was 99% of my friends remained with me." Thatcher and Major stood by him. Major just sent Archer a note after having read Prisoner, telling his old friend that he "should be very proud of it." Critics aren't all charitable Archer says he has mellowed and cares less about what the critics say of his work. And not all critics are as generous toward his new book as Publishers Weekly. In London's Evening Standard, critic Sebastian Shakespeare knocked his prose. "It's not that the story is bad," he wrote. "How could it be, given that it's largely a rip-off of Dumas? It is a rollicking adventure narrated in Janet and John-style prose and draws on Archer's own experiences in the nick." Archer insists everyone is a prisoner of their birth. He has broken the shackles of his humble start, he says, with hard work. "If you have energy and talent, you're a king," Archer says. "If you have energy and no talent, you're a prince. If you have talent and no energy, you're a pauper. You're stuck with what you've got, so get on with it." So, is Lord Archer also a king? "I've had a very privileged life to end up here," he says, looking out over the Thames toward Parliament. "It's quite fun to go back to the bottom. It's agony on one level. But at least it makes you get up in the morning." He says he regrets nothing. But when he went back to Belmarsh prison recently to visit, an inmate made him a theoretical offer: swap places. The prisoner could live Archer's privileged life and Archer could have the thrill of starting over again. "That's when I really thought, 'You're a lucky individual,' " Archer says. But no, he says, he's not going back to prison — or the bottom — again. "I've done it for my last time," he says. "I'm too old." http://www.usatoday.com/life/books/news/2008-03-02-archer_N.htm
Jack Abramoff: The Truth About My Crimes, Jail, And Life As A Felon By Henry Blodget | Daily Ticker – February 23, 2012 A decade ago, Jack Abramoff was one of the Washington's richest and most-successful lobbyists. Representing Indian tribes, telecom companies, sovereign governments, and dozens of other clients, he played the lobbying game extremely aggressively--so aggressively that he eventually caught the attention of the press and federal investigators. At first, Abramoff says, he thought he was being unfairly singled out and that the scandal would quickly blow over. Then he began reviewing some of the ~850,000 emails he had written during his lobbying career and realized that, at times, even in a city and profession in which "legal bribery" is business as usual, he had crossed the line. In early 2006, Abramoff pleaded guilty to three felonies, including conspiracy to bribe public officials, and was sentenced to 6 years in jail. He served three and a half years at a minimum security prison in Cumberland, Maryland, as inmate number 27593-112. He was then released to a Baltimore halfway house in 2010, where he worked at a pizza parlor for about $10 an hour. Since then, Abramoff has published a book--CAPITOL PUNISHMENT: The Hard Truth About Washington Corruption From America's Most Notorious Lobbyist --and started giving speeches. He still owes $44 million in "restitution," so a big chunk of any money he makes will go to the government. Many Americans view those convicted of crimes as "criminals" who are fundamentally different than everyone else. And although the label is technically true--they have, after all, committed crimes--it often draws a much sharper line between criminals and "good people" than is frequently the case. "Criminals," in many cases, are good people who have committed crimes. And Jack Abramoff seems an excellent example of that. In this interview, Abramoff talks about what it was like to fall so hard, what jail was like, and how life has been since his release. http://finance.yahoo.com/blogs/daily-ticker/jack-abramoff-truth-crimes-jail-life-felon-174921366.html
James Alderdice Begins Serving 10-year Term June 3, 1985 - United Press International TALLAHASSEE — A former officer of the defunct International Gold Bullion Exchange reports to a federal prison today to begin serving a 10-year term for defrauding 25,000 people of at least $75 million. James Alderdice, 28, pleaded guilty to two counts of an 18-count indictment alleging that he and his late brother, William, bilked investors through their precious metals firm, then believed to be the world`s largest. The indictment, handed up in August 1983, alleged conspiracy, wire fraud and mail fraud. William Alderdice, 40, was stabbed to death last July by a man the brothers befriended in jail. James Alderdice is scheduled to report today to the medium-security Federal Correctional Institution in Tallahassee to begin serving his sentence, a spokeswoman for the U.S. Marshals Service in Miami said. She said it was not known what time Alderdice would arrive at the prison. U.S. District Judge James C. Paine in West Palm Beach sentenced Alderdice April 12 to the maximum 10-year term, saying the ``enormity of the fraud is outrageous.`` Paine was unmoved by Alderdice`s claim that he was sorry for the way things turned out and wished he ``had $7 million or $10 million because I would give every penny of it to creditors.`` Paine said fraudulent schemes are more serious than bad business deals. ``You knew it would lead to losses to creditors,`` the judge said while also ordering Alderdice to repay $227,658 to creditors. Paine`s federal court sentence supersedes two lesser prison terms Alderdice received in state courts in New York and Florida. Those prison terms will run concurrently with the federal sentence. Alderdice`s lawyer, Thomas Scalfani, has said he would seek a reduction of the sentence in the coming months. Failure to win a reduction probably would mean Alderdice will serve from 52 to 64 months in prison. Alderdice was sentenced on April 10 in White Plains, N.Y., to five years in prison after pleading guilty to two counts of grand larceny and two counts of security fraud. Two days earlier, a state judge in Fort Lauderdale sentenced him to six years in prison and ordered him to repay $2.3 million to the company`s investors. Alderdice and his brother founded and served as officers of the Fort Lauderdale-based International Gold Bullion Exchange. Court records showed the firm systematically defrauded as many as 25,000 people nationwide of at least $75 million over a four-year period. Authorities alleged that the International Gold Bullion Exchange accepted up to $200 million from investors across the United States from 1979 to 1983, but failed to deliver all the gold it sold. State authorities said the scheme bilked more than $25 million from Florida investors alone, with the total reaching or surpassing $75 million across the nation. The company was closed down by a Fort Lauderdale judge in April 1983 and filed for bankruptcy that same month. James Alderdice has been free since his sentencing by Paine. http://articles.sun-sentinel.com/1985-06-03/news/8501220086_1_james-alderdice-prison-terms-federal-prison-today
James Alderdice - Gold Bullion Fraud Gets 10-year Federal Prison Term April 13, 1985 By Kathleen Pellegrino, Staff Writer James Alderdice was sentenced Friday to 10 years in federal prison, the last and most severe penalty he has received for his role in the $75 million collapse of the International Gold Bullion Exchange. ``The enormity of the fraud really can only be described as outrageous. It is impossible for me to consider anything but the maximum,`` said U.S. District Judge James Paine, who also imposed an $11,000 fine and ordered Alderdice to make $227,000 in restitution. The sentence stunned Alderdice, who immediately turned to his attorney and whispered through gritted teeth. His two sisters and mother sobbed loudly. ``No! No!`` his sister Dana shouted as she jumped from her seat. Defense attorney Thomas Sclafani said he, too, did not expect Paine to impose the maximum allowed by a plea-bargain agreement Alderdice made March 7. ``We`re obviously very unhappy,`` Sclafani said in a hallway outside the West Palm Beach courtroom, where the Alderdice family huddled and wept. ``His sentence is way of line from the others.`` In New York on Monday, Alderdice was sentenced to five years. In Broward Circuit Court on Wednesday, he was sentenced to six years. Judges in both cases agreed that the sentences could be served in federal prison at the same time Alderdice served his sentence in the federal case. Alderdice pleaded guilty March 7 to two federal charges of mail fraud. He will probably spend between 52 and 64 months in prison before he is eligible for parole, Sclafani said. Paine recommended a minimum security prison and allowed Alderdice to remain free until he is ordered to report to prison by the U.S. Marshals Service. At Friday`s sentencing, Alderdice, 28, told Paine he was sorry for the losses left by the company, formed by Alderdice and his brother, William, 40. ``I am extremely sorry that I did not exert a firmer hand on my brother,`` Alderdice said. ``I only wish I had $8 (million) or $10 million. I would give every penny to the creditors.`` By most accounts, Sclafani told Paine, the elder Alderdice ``called the shots`` and made all the business decisions. William Alderdice, while awaiting trial on the charges, was killed by an ex-convict he and his brother had befriended. Sclafani reminisced for Paine about the early days of the company, when it moved into a modern downtown Fort Lauderdale office building and William Alderdice accepted keys to the city and county from government officials. ``The reason for the extension of that honor was because the International Gold Bullion Exchange had become an overnight success story,`` Sclafani said. William Alderdice boasted that someday the firm would be the largest precious metals dealership in the world. Sclafani compared the collapse, which left 23,000 creditors with losses, to the downfall of any major corporation or bank. ``I find that somewhat intriguing,`` prosecutor Elizabeth Jenkins said. ``I have never heard of major corporations having gold-painted blocks in their vaults.`` When IGBE closed its doors at One Corporate Plaza in April 1983, wooden blocks painted gold were found in a vault that was supposed to be stocked with precious metals. ``There was a substantial fraud. There were numerous victims deprived of their life savings,`` said Jenkins. ``We believe (Alderdice) should be punished accordingly.`` The investors are fighting for their money in bankruptcy court in Miami. The trustee for the bankruptcy and Alderdice`s attorneys have said that the only chance for reimbursement or restitution is if a gold mine the company still owns in Alaska can be activated. As the Alderdice family was preparing to leave the courthouse Friday, Dana Alderdice paused between sobs, looked skyward and said with a moan, ``Bill, how did you let this happen?`` http://articles.sun-sentinel.com/1985-04-13/news/8501140217_1_james-alderdice-william-alderdice-sentence
Actor, Comedian Tim Allen served 2 years in federal prison for cocaine trafficking Actor Tim Allen was arrested in October 1978 while attempting to sell a large amount of cocaine to a Michigan undercover officer. Allen, 25 at the time, served about two years in federal prison following the bust. On October 2, 1978, Allen was arrested in the Kalamazoo/Battle Creek International Airport for possession of over 650 grams (1.4 lb) of cocaine. He subsequently pleaded guilty to drug trafficking charges, and provided the names of other dealers in exchange for a sentence of three to seven years rather than a possible life imprisonment. He was paroled on June 12, 1981, after serving 2 years and 4 months in Federal Correctional Institution, Sandstone in Sandstone, Minnesota. Allen had the Federal Bureau of Prisons Register # 04276-040. The experience was so bad that he was forced to turn himself around. He told Esquire, "When I went to jail, reality hit so hard that it took my breath away, took my stance away, took my strength away. I was there buck naked, humiliated ... this is a metaphor. My ego had run off. Your ego is the biggest coward." Allen became known to the public for his role on the sitcom "Home Improvement," which premiered in 1991. Published in the November 2011 issue of Esquire magazine Use a screwdriver instead of a hammer. Try to untighten the nut with your hand. Utilize the path of least resistance first. I blend memories. I blend them into one that's funny. I exaggerate to clarify. Being wealthy when no one else is is like being the only one at the party with a drink. You don't know what people are really like until they're under a lot of stress. In politics, there's compromise and everyone feels like shit. In marriage, compromise nurtures the relationship. My comedy is not mine. It's a gift. I'm not that smart. My grandma once told me, "Don't confuse your perceptibility with intelligence." When somebody tells you they're not very smart, they're saying exactly the opposite. I have irrational fears, and they all go back to losing my father as a kid. I've never gotten over it. One day my father was there, the next he wasn't, and there was no going back. There's no "I'll be better, God. Now I know I shouldn't eat candy." As children, your world is yours. That day taught me that it's really not your world. Somebody else is in control — fate, God, whatever it is. It is not your show. And the show can be brutal. Brutal in its coldness. Brutal in its love and affection. Shit can hit you straight between the eyes and you never saw it coming, even when you were looking straight ahead. A car crossed two lanes of traffic, flipped, and landed on my dad's car. I don't blame cars. My dad loved cars. I don't have many memories of my dad. The love of cars is all I have of him, really. One of the best pieces of advice my mother gave me was "Make your bed in other people's homes. That way you get invited back." My stepfather stepped in where no man would've stepped in — six kids, five of them boys — and that's heroic. I know it sounds odd, but I want to make a Rolex-quality screwdriver. The unfairness of life is indicative of trees. I planted twenty trees on the same block. It's so fucking weird. Six became huge. One is giant. And there are some little shitty ones. Same soil. Same water. Same seed. But those little ones just don't grow. I can't explain it. I'm sad for adults who want to be children. And children who want to be adults. One of my goals is to plant five thousand trees in L. A. You think it's easy? I've never seen more red tape than when it comes to planting trees. The ego is like a kid in the basement: It's best to keep him busy. Sometimes you get the sense that the Creator is getting to that point of "Yeah, we might have to reboot." Be wary of listening to stories secondhand. As the Chinese will tell you, history depends on your point of view. I'm a very bad student, but a great learner. When I went to jail, reality hit so hard that it took my breath away, took my stance away, took my strength away. I was there buck naked, humiliated, sitting in my own crap and urine — this is a metaphor. My ego had run off. Your ego is the biggest coward. The law was passed to teach people a lesson. Selling more than 650 grams of cocaine got you life in prison. They thought it would be a deterrent. It wasn't. I was put in a holding cell with twenty other guys — we had to crap in the same crapper in the middle of the room — and I just told myself, I can't do this for seven and a half years. I want to kill myself. That's when the comic in me appeared. The comic said, "Have you ever killed yourself before? Do you know how it works? Let me tell you how it's going to end up: You're gonna get it wrong and end up hanging a few inches off the ground with your shirt just over your ears, going: 'Oh, fuck. Somebody help me ...' You're gonna hang like an idiot for an hour with everybody just looking at you." The image of my head straining with the shirt over my ears made me laugh. The comic in me showed up, the purest form, and saved my life. I do my best to stay away from expectations. Very rarely do we listen to the wisdom of people who go before us. I haven't found a wise man. Do you know a wise man, right now? If you were told the end at the beginning, you wouldn't have to travel.
Former pal of John A. (Junior) Gotti will read statement at sentencing of Gambino mobster John Burke implicating mob honcho in 1991 murder Mafia turncoat John Alite will reveal how he teamed with Burke to murder Bruce Gotterup in 1991. In earlier trial, Alite stunned court admitting to steamy affair with Victoria Gotti. John Alite, seen here in this 2004 mugshot, is ready to deliver a knockout punch to his ex-crony on behalf of Bruce Gotterup’s family. By John Marzulli/ NEW YORK DAILY NEWS - JANUARY 23, 2013 Three years after he testified against John A. (Junior) Gotti, the mob scion’s former best friend is returning to court with one last score to settle against the Gambino crime family. Mafia turncoat John Alite will read a blistering statement at the sentencing Friday of John Burke, his co-conspirator in the 1991 gangland murder of Bruce Gotterup, the Daily News has learned. GAMBINO GOON ON TRIAL FOR MURDERS WITNESS CLAIMS WERE SANCTIONED BY GOTTI "JUNIOR"MOB RAT ALITE OUT TO HUMILIATE GOTTI JUNIOR “They have always had a sense of forgiveness and I will be sticking up for them,” he said about the Gotterup family in an exclusive interview with The Daily News. Alite didn’t take the stand at Burke’s murder trial last year, but he sparred with Gotti during the mob boss’ 2009 federal trial on charges that he approved the Gotterup killing. At one point, Junior called Alite a “punk dog” in the courtroom. Mugshot of John Burke, who is being sentenced for the murder of Bruce Gotterup. In an earlier trial of another Gambino mobster, Alite stunned the court by revealing he had a steamy affair with mob princess Victoria Gotti, Junior’s sister, in the 1980s when she was dating her future husband Carmine Agnello. She denied any relationship. Prosecutors failed to prove Junior’s connection to the Gotterup slaying. GOTTI'S DEFENSE PAINTS MOB TURNCOAT ALITE AS LYING, MURDERING NUT Now, Alite is ready to deliver a knockout punch to his ex-crony on behalf of Gotterup’s family. “He (Burke) was a coward then and he’s still a coward for not owning up to his crime and apologizing to the family.” Alite said he will out Burke, who faces life in prison, as a fraud for portraying himself on an Internet blog as a Bible-quoting Christian who claims to have found religion in prison. Bruce Gotterup was murdered by John Burke in 1991. John Alite intends to read a statement that will implicate himself and John A. (Junior) Gotti in his murder. “If he really believes the Bible, then he should tell the truth,” Alite, 50, said. Alite has kept a low profile since he was released from prison last spring after completing a 100-month sentence for his part in Gotterup’s murder. But he dodged a life sentence by helping the government prosecute Junior and other members of their murderous crew that pushed drugs in Queens in the 1980s and left a trail of dead bodies. He couldn’t deliver a conviction against Junior, whose trial ended in a hung jury. But his testimony did result in guilty pleas by other crew members and the conviction of Gambino hitman Charles Carneglia. In addition to their business partnership, Alite and Junior used to be fast friends. Junior was Alite’s best man at his wedding, even convincing him to get hitched on Valentine’s Day because it was Junior’s birthday. And Alite attended his wedding at the Helmsley Palace Hotel, which was a who’s who of mobsters. Because he was of Albanian descent and not Italian, Alite could never have been a made man. Still, prosecutors said he was endowed with a more powerful status than other mob associates because of his ties to Junior and his sheer ruthlessness. Alite estimates he made millions of dollars, owned nine homes, six businesses and three nightclubs. That’s all gone. He said the priority now is keeping his 21-year-old son John Jr. on the straight and narrow and disrupting the mob’s recruiting pipeline of young men lured by false dreams of money and honor — like he was while growing up in Woodhaven, Queens. “I ruined my life the way I went,” Alite said. “Before I went to jail I was a good father but I was like two different people. On the street I was vicious. My kids are never gonna go through what I did. “I took my kids to a Yankees game and it humbled me because we sat in the bleachers and I used to sit in box seats,” he explained. “But that’s part of life now and I am trying to make it the right way this time.” “I get up at 6:30 now looking for work, I get depressed, I go to therapy,” he said about working construction. “I’m trying to keep pushing forward.” Alite said he met with Debra Gotterup, Bruce’s wife, and her daughter about a year ago and told them he was sorry he ruined their lives as well as his own. Debra Gotterup, of Long Island, said said she believes he’s sincere. John Alite holds a statement he’ll make in court revealing how he teamed with John Burke to murder Bruce Gotterup. “He’s trying to change his life and I believe everyone deserves a second chance,” she said. As for Burke, she’s looking forward to seeing him sentenced to prison today in Brooklyn Federal Court. “I can’t wait for Friday and I’ll never forgive him. He’s the one who pulled the trigger,” she said. Alite’s scorn goes beyond Junior to his father, the Teflon Don. He laughs at the mention of a major motion picture about the elder John Gotti that Junior backs — calling it a “Cinderella” fairy tale that takes liberties with the truth. Alite, who spent several nights a week sleeping over the Gotti home in Howard Beach back in the day, said the Dapper Don couldn’t properly dress himself without the help of a tailor. “That family is never going to take accountability for what they did,” he said. “They’re egotistical. They love themselves.” Alite’s road ahead has cinematic themes — part “A Bronx Tale” trying to protect his sons from trouble and part “Carlito’s Way” staying clear of trouble himself. Inevitably he runs into a familiar face from his illicit past. Sometimes they will say hello and tell him not to tell anyone they spoke to him. Others call him a rat or ignore him. He’s also painfully aware of the ever-present danger of retribution faced by every mob rat. “Every day I walk out the door I check out everything,” he said, noting that he balked at entering the witness protection program. “I’m not going to be one of those guys who gets killed in the street if I can help it, but I’m not gonna go live in Utah. “I know there’s guys on the street who want me,” Alite said. “They’re patient. They want me to get comfortable. I know how easy it is to get somebody.” firstname.lastname@example.org WHAT HE'LL TELL 'FAKE TOUGH GUY' Excerpts from a statement former Gambino associate John Alite will read in federal court Friday during the sentencing of John Burke for the 1991 murder of Bruce Gotterup. “I speak behind this podium because like the rest of the other fake tough guys and yourself, if we were somewhere alone in the past in a cell, in the streets, you wouldn't make a peep about me or anyone in a position that's really trying to live the right way for a change.” “This family (Gotterup) doesn’t hate you, doesn’t even wish you harm. All they ever wanted was an apology. ... Instead of giving them closure and helping them get through their mourning and admit to your part in taking (Bruce Gotterup’s) life as I did, instead you give them disrespect and push the Bible while at the same time you move heroin in state joints (prison).” “Why don’t you be a man and speak up to break this pattern not just for our kids’ sake but for as many kids’ as we can reach sakes?” “You have plenty of time now to remember that I saved your life numerous times when you couldn't make the streets without me or my name. So the next time you decide to write on the computer, try talking to your God to guide you and stand on your own two feet, not like a coward, a junkie or a liar.” “If you are really honest to that Bible that you claim, you will make amends with this family and finally apologize to them today!” http://www.nydailynews.com/news/crime/ya-gottis-article-1.1246323