Part 12

George Burns and Jack Benny protested any intent of wrongdoing. But they were charged with smuggling and both pleaded guilty when brought into court. Burns was sentenced to a year and a day on each of nine counts and fined $8,000. However, the execution of the sentence was suspended and he was placed on probation for a year and a day. Jack Benny was also sentenced to a year and a day in prison, his sentence was suspended, and he was placed on probation for a year. He was required to pay fines totalling $10,000.

The tattling of Rosa Weber brought tragedy to the Lauers. Justice Lauer resigned from the court in the uproar which followed the smuggling exposé. Mrs. Lauer was sentenced to three months in prison.

The dapper Chaperau confessed to the smuggling. He was fined $5,000 and sentenced to five years in prison, but because of his cooperation in the case, President Roosevelt ordered his release from prison in April, 1940.

The story of Rosa Weber is not a new one to Customs officers or, for that matter, to any of the Federal and local police agencies, because the informer has always played an important role in law enforcement’s never-ending battle against the criminal world.

In 1944, FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover wrote in the _FBI Law Enforcement Bulletin_:

The objective of the investigator must be to ferret out the truth. It is fundamental that the search include the most logical source of information--those persons with immediate access to necessary facts who are willing to cooperate in the interest of the common good. Their services contribute greatly to the ultimate goal of justice--convicting the guilty and clearing the innocent. Necessarily unheralded in their daily efforts, they not only uncover crimes but also furnish the intelligence data so vital in preventing serious violations of law and national intelligence.

The Customs Bureau--along with other enforcement agencies--has developed a network of informers who aid in combatting smuggling and other violations of the tariff laws. Information comes from maids, disgruntled employees, ship’s officers and stewards, shop girls, bartenders, narcotics addicts, businessmen, racketeers, and jealous mistresses--each with his own motive for passing information to the agents.

Some informers are motivated by a momentary fit of anger--as was Rosa Weber. Some report smuggling activities to settle an old grudge against an enemy. Some inform through fear of the law--fear of deportation, fear of a severe prison sentence, or fear that unless they get the law on their side, their underworld enemies will destroy them. Then there is the information which comes from citizens who have no other motive than the desire to see the law upheld.

There are petty criminals who turn informer because it gives them a feeling of holding the whip-hand over the “big shots” of the underworld. Others inform because of a sincere desire to break with their criminal past and to start a new life with a clean slate.

But a sizable number of Customs informers are those who seek a money reward. Among these are professional informers, who make a regular business of checking on the sales of jewelry, clothing and other merchandise in Europe, and learning whether the buyers intend to declare their purchases to customs on arrival in the United States.

Most of the large seizures of heroin, diamonds, gold and other contraband have been discovered because some one gave advance information. Customs agents readily concede that most smuggling rings are broken up because of the tips that come from informers who often play a deadly and dangerous game.

Federal agents are taught the art of developing contacts with informers--and the absolute necessity for acquiring information from those with first-hand knowledge of a criminal operation.

The agents cannot often disclose the full story of how an informer was enlisted, and how he aided them in breaking up a criminal combine, because the disclosure could be fatal to the informer. But the story of how Narcotics Agent Pat O’Carroll, a handsome, black-haired Irishman, recruited one informer can now be told.

Shortly after World War II, O’Carroll was assigned to the Bureau of Narcotics’ International Squad in New York City to help with the investigations being made into the narcotics traffic. Two of the squad’s prime targets were Benny Bellanca, who lived in Jersey City, and Pietro Beddia, who resided in Westchester.

Both men were suspected of being involved deeply in the international narcotics traffic--with connections in France and Italy--but agents were unable to make a case against them and they remained untouchable. Perhaps they would have continued their operations for years, except that O’Carroll played a hunch.

The case began to take shape when Agent Angelo Zurlo, tailing a suspected narcotics pusher on New York’s Lower East Side, saw his man enter a small olive oil and cheese shop on Christie Street near Delancey. He noted the name and address of the shop in his notebook and later made a memorandum of the incident which went into the Bureau’s cross-indexed file. Some months later, Narcotics agents following another suspect saw him enter the olive oil and cheese shop on Christie Street. They made a memorandum, also, which went into the files.

In the summer of 1952, O’Carroll was checking the files when he noted the two memos mentioning the small shop on Christie. Further investigation revealed it had been owned by Alphonse Attardi before he was sentenced to serve an eight-year prison term for a narcotics violation in Galveston, Texas, in the early 1940s. Attardi had completed the sentence, but Immigration authorities were studying the possibility of extradition proceedings, inasmuch as Attardi was Italian by birth.

Attardi at this time was sixty years old, 5 feet 3, and weighed about 140 pounds. He had the appearance of a meek and humble little shoemaker, and he scarcely fitted the part of an underworld character. He had an engaging, warm personality, and he was known in the Mafia as “The Peacemaker” because of his knack for compromising disputes--but that was before he had served time in prison.

O’Carroll decided to pay a call on Attardi, who he learned was living in a cheap, transient rooming house on 16th Street just off Third Avenue. It was after midnight one warm night when he strolled down Third Avenue in the shadows of the old El to 16th Street. Even the softness of the night could not hide the shabbiness and the squalor of the area.

O’Carroll entered the rooming house and climbed two flights of stairs. He knocked on the door and then tried the doorknob. The door swung open, and at that moment the agent knew that Attardi was in a bad way financially. If he had had a bankroll, he wouldn’t have left the door unbolted--not in this dive.

He saw Attardi sitting up in bed, a skinny gnome of a man wearing only undershirt and shorts.

“Who is it?” Attardi said. “What do you want?”

“Take it easy,” O’Carroll said. “I’m a U.S. Treasury agent. I just want to talk to you.”

Attardi switched on a light over the bed. “What do you want to see me about?” he said. “I’m clean.”

“Have you got any narcotics in this room?” O’Carroll asked him.

Attardi shook his head. “No. You can search the room if you like. I’m out of the business.”

O’Carroll pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat down. He began to talk about Attardi’s connections with well-known underworld figures, asking him why it was that he had been convicted in Houston while others in the mob had gone free.

As they talked, bitterness began to creep into Attardi’s voice. He had taken the rap in Houston--and then his pals had deserted him. They didn’t even try to communicate with him while he was in prison. His wife had become ill and no one had come forward to help her. She had died. He had even lost the little olive oil and cheese shop on Christie Street.

“Now I have nothing,” he said.

“Maybe we can help you,” O’Carroll said. “I can’t make any promises, but if you help us we may be able to help you when your deportation case comes up.”

Attardi shook his head. “I can’t do it. I’d be dead if I worked for you.”

O’Carroll continued talking of the injustices done to Attardi by his old pals, insisting that he owed them nothing since they had deserted him. But Attardi continued to say no.

At last O’Carroll said, “Well, I’ll leave my name and telephone number. If you ever need help--I’ll be glad to talk to you.” He wrote his name and telephone number on a slip of paper and handed it to Attardi.

For six months O’Carroll heard nothing from Attardi. He made no move to see the man again. He had planted the seed, and whether it took root depended on what went on in the mind of the skinny little ex-convict.

But in early December Attardi called the Narcotics Bureau office and Agent George O’Connor took the call. He explained that he wanted to talk to O’Carroll and he would be waiting for him on Delancey Street near Christie.

That afternoon O’Carroll and O’Connor drove to Delancey and parked near the street number mentioned by Attardi. A few minutes later the hoodlum walked from a doorway and ducked into the car with them.

The agents had assumed that Attardi had made the call because he was frightened over the prospect of being deported to Italy. But it wasn’t deportation that was on Attardi’s mind. He had fallen in love. He had met a twenty-two-year-old waitress in one of the mean little restaurants on the Lower East Side--and this girl had become the most important thing in his life. They wanted to get married, but he had no money.

Attardi said he was willing to put the agents onto some Puerto Ricans living in Brooklyn who were dealing in narcotics. If the price were right, Attardi would help knock off the gang.

The agents listened to Attardi’s story and then O’Carroll shook his head. “It’s no deal,” he said. “We want better cases than that. We want to go to the top.”

Attardi was frightened but he also was in love. And so he began asking how the agents could protect him if he did agree to work with them. He flatly refused to do any buying of narcotics himself.

At last it was agreed that Attardi would introduce an undercover agent to some of his friends who were in the peddling business. Then it would be up to the agent to handle the deals, Attardi’s role being to vouch for the agent as “one of the boys.”

Undercover Agent Joe Tremoglie, a big, curly-haired man, was chosen to work with Attardi. Tremoglie’s parents had come to the United States from Sicily and Joe spoke fluent Italian. He knew the underworld, its mannerisms, superstitions, and nuances. He had about him a conspiratorial air that seemed to appeal to criminals and to disarm them.

Attardi’s first assignment was to introduce Tremoglie to a cafe cook on Newberry Street who was pushing narcotics on the side. The agent made a small purchase and then let himself be seen in the right places with Attardi--who began to introduce him as a distant cousin.

As the weeks passed, Tremoglie met narcotics pushers and wholesalers. He played poker with them. Slowly he moved up the ladder until one day he was introduced to Benny Bellanca, who took an immediate liking to him after Tremoglie had given the right answers to all the questions. He liked him so well, in fact, that they discussed the possibility of Tremoglie going to Europe as a courier to bring back a load of heroin.

He met Pietro Beddia, too, and an intensive surveillance by Narcotics agents disclosed a link between Bellanco and Beddia.

At the end of ten months of work by Tremoglie, the trap was set. Arrangements were made for Tremoglie to make a series of purchases during one afternoon and night on a timetable that was worked out to the minute. For twelve hours, Tremoglie raced from one meeting place to another, making the prearranged purchases of narcotics. And at 3 o’clock in the morning twenty of the leading narcotics dealers in the New York area--including Bellanca and Beddia--had been rounded up.

Alphonse Attardi wasn’t around for the trials. He took his $5,000 reward money plus expenses--plus his bride--and faded from the scene. All he would tell agents was that he planned to buy a little place in the country and settle down to make an honest living.

The underworld finally figured out that it was Attardi who had sprung the trap on them, and defense counsel for the accused men demanded that he be produced by the government for questioning. But Narcotics agents could honestly say they knew nothing of Attardi’s whereabouts. They didn’t want to know.

Informers have given valuable aid to the Customs Service in its drive against smuggling, and there are many Alphonse Attardis--each with his own motive--who work with the agents.

Under the law, the Customs Service is permitted to pay up to $50,000 for information leading to the seizure of smuggled goods. The system provides that the informer may receive 25 per cent of the net recovery in any case in which he provides the original information leading to arrest and conviction for smuggling or fraud. Net recovery means the amount which goes into the Treasury of the United States as a result of a disclosure. For example, suppose Customs agents seize from a smuggler a diamond necklace that is worth $10,000, the appraisal being based on the American selling price. The necklace is forfeited and sold at public auction for $8,000. Assuming expenses of $400 involved in the case, then the net recovery is $7,600, of which the informant is entitled to $1,900.

The theory behind such payments is that the government has made a good bargain when it can pay an informer $1 and then have $3 left over for the Treasury--money which would have been lost without the cooperation of the informant.

There was one Customs informer working in Europe who received the top reward of $50,000 three times by uncovering the smuggling of huge shipments of diamonds into the United States. He refused to accept payment in Europe--but waited until he had $150,000 in credits with the U.S. Treasury. Then he came to the United States, received the money, and settled down to live the life of a country gentleman in the West.

And the rewards were tax free--as are all payments made to informers.

10

THE VIOLENT BORDER

Customs agents in the Laredo Tenth Customs Agency District--which includes the 2,000 miles of border and Gulf coastline from New Mexico into part of Louisiana--spend much of their time battling the smuggling of narcotics and marihuana from Mexico.

Federal officers estimate that the business of peddling narcotics to addicts grosses at least a half billion dollars a year for the underworld, and the total may be much more. No one actually knows the amount of narcotics which is smuggled successfully into the United States. Some Customs agents estimate that law enforcement officers seize less than 10 per cent of the total. One agent said, “If I thought that I was getting ten per cent of the total being smuggled, then I could sleep well at night.”

Even though the size of the narcotics traffic is unknown, there is no doubt about the tremendous profits to be made from the illegal sale of drugs. Addicts will beg, borrow, steal and kill to obtain money with which to satisfy the terrible craving for narcotics once they are “hooked.”

Unofficial estimates place the number of narcotic addicts in the United States at about 50,000. The average heroin addict requires something like ten grains per day to satisfy his needs. This means that over a period of a year the average heroin addict will use about 7.6 ounces of the drug--or a total for all addicts of about 380,000 ounces of heroin or a substitute drug. In their best years, Federal and state law enforcement officers have been able to seize only a fraction of this estimated total.

Several years ago the Mexican marihuana dealers took no responsibility for delivery into the United States; all arrangements for smuggling across the border had to be made by the purchasers who came from the States. But in recent years there has been a change, and the Mexican operators have been willing to make deliveries to New York, Chicago, Detroit and other cities. Jack Givens, Supervising Agent for the Laredo district, believes this change in delivery method is an indication that the supply of marihuana in Mexico has outgrown the demand. This has put the pressure on the Mexican operators to give their customers better service, resulting in the delivery system.

In recent years some of the United States marihuana operators have begun to bypass border operators. They have been driving to the interior of Mexico, making their own deals with the growers and bringing the stuff back into the United States themselves. Customs inspectors are always on guard against marihuana being smuggled in automobiles--hidden in upholstery, in luggage compartments, in door panels, or in secret compartments built into the cars.

Customs agents believe that most of the heroin and other narcotics smuggled into the United States come by way of Europe from the Middle East and Far East. But Mexico still is one of the favorite routes for the narcotics syndicates seeking to reach the American addicts. In addition, Mexico remains the major exporter of marihuana. The Mexican government has been cooperating with the United States in seeking to suppress the traffic, and there is a close working relationship between the American agents and the Mexican police. But the long and rugged boundary between the two countries makes it impossible to cover every smuggling point on the border.

Supervisor Givens has only thirty-nine agents and seventeen Customs enforcement officers assigned to him for the entire territory. The enforcement officers are a police force used primarily for guard duty and surveillance work under the agents’ direction.

This small force, despite the geographic difficulties, has a high esprit de corps. Each man works many hours overtime each month with no expectation of compensation. The records show that the agents average approximately 120 hours of overtime each month in excess of the overtime required of them and for which they are paid. Often the men find themselves working overtime knowing that their extra effort will be rewarded with pay averaging 19 cents an hour.

Why do they do it? One agent explained it in this way: “There’s more than money in this work once you become involved in it. Once you start working on a case, you simply cannot walk away from it at the end of eight hours. You have a feeling of achievement when you do break up a marihuana ring or pick up someone who is dealing in heroin.”

Patrolling the Mexican border has been a major problem for Customs since the frontier days. In 1853 the Customs Mounted Patrol was organized, and horsemen rode across the deserts and through the mountains on lonely patrols to intercept cattle rustlers, smugglers and aliens trying to slip across the border. The mounted guard inevitably gave way to the automobile. But the horsemen rarely had more hair-raising experiences than those of the modern agents mounted on wheels. Such an incident occurred on August 7, 1960, in one of the wildest chases in the memory of Customs agents along the Texas-Mexico border.

It began when Agent Fred Rody, Jr., received a tip that an American was in the red-light district of Nuevo Laredo, trying to arrange for the purchase of 20 pounds of marihuana--obviously to be smuggled into the United States.

Further checking disclosed that the man was John Vaccaro, a known narcotics dealer working out of New Orleans. Vaccaro had been convicted of a marihuana violation in New Orleans and been placed under surveillance earlier in the year when he had visited Laredo. At that time agents had tried to intercept Vaccaro, suspected of smuggling marihuana, but in a wild chase on the highway Vaccaro pulled away from their car, even though their speedometer was registering 120 miles an hour. He also succeeded in eluding the police roadblocks which had been thrown up in front of him.

Agents kept a close watch on Vaccaro’s car after Rody received his report. Finally they saw someone approach his automobile and place a suitcase in the front seat of his car. Then they saw Vaccaro, his wife, and their fourteen-year-old daughter enter the car.

When Vaccaro drove down San Bernardo Avenue and then onto U.S. Highway 59, he was followed by agents in three automobiles. When the Vaccaro car slowed in heavy traffic, the agents bracketed his car with one car in front, one behind, and the other alongside. Agent T. S. Simpson leaned out of his car and shouted, “Stop! We are Customs agents.”

Vaccaro pulled his car to the side of the road and slowed down as though to stop. Suddenly he slammed his foot on the accelerator. His car leaped forward between two of the agents’ vehicles and roared off on the left side of the highway, forcing terrified drivers to swerve into the ditch to avoid a collision. The agents gunned their cars in pursuit.

Simpson and Rody watched the speed indicator on their automobile reach 110 miles an hour, but Vaccaro’s car still pulled away from them.

Agent Grady Grazner in a 1957 police interceptor-model Chevrolet moved past the Rody-Simpson car and slowly began gaining on the Vaccaro vehicle. His speedometer was reading 130 miles an hour when he moved up behind Vaccaro’s automobile with his siren screaming. Grazner nudged Vaccaro’s automobile with his bumper and signalled for Vaccaro to pull over and stop. The woman and girl in the car were looking out the rear window, screaming and motioning Grazner to pull away from their car.

For several miles the cars raced along at well over 100 miles an hour. Grazner fired four warning shots into the air trying to force Vaccaro to stop. He was afraid to fire directly into the vehicle because of the women inside.

Gradually Grazner’s car moved up on the fleeing automobile. As the front wheels of Grazner’s car reached the left rear wheels of Vaccaro’s car, the marihuana dealer suddenly swerved. The blow of his car knocked Grazner’s vehicle to the side of the road. The car rolled over six times and bounced a distance of 471 feet. The only thing that saved Grazner’s life was the fact that he was strapped into the seat by a safety belt.

Police had been alerted ahead by radio. In the little town of Ferret, Texas, Vaccaro saw the roadblock ahead. He tried to bypass it by darting down a dirt road, but he was overtaken and brought to a halt.

Police found only fragments of marihuana in the Vaccaro car. When a search of the highway was later made by a helicopter, the pilot spotted a suitcase lying beside the road. Vaccaro had left his fingerprints on the suitcase when he tossed it out of his speeding automobile. It was stuffed with marihuana.

When Customs agents took Vaccaro into custody, Grazner said, “Why did you try to kill me? You might have killed your wife and little girl too.”

Vaccaro spat on the agent and said insolently, “What in the hell are you talking about?”

Vaccaro was sentenced to twenty-five years in prison for this venture into violence.

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