The Art of the Heist

Sixteen

My first phone call from the jail was to Ralph Petrozziello. I was in serious trouble and I knew it. I needed a good lawyer, and Ralph’s attorney, a man named Martin Leppo, had helped him out of a number of jams. Until then I hadn’t needed Marty’s services, but he represented more than a few of the guys on my crew and we were casual acquaintances. He was a regular at my gigs; in fact, he owned a beach house not far from Mashpee.

“Call Marty and let him know the FBI’s got me in Barnstable,” I told Ralph.

As luck would have it, Marty was at his beach house at the time and was able to come right away.

“The first thing we have to do is get you out of here,” he said when he finally got in to see me. “I assume you can post bail?”

“Bail’s not a problem,” I told him. “But you know I’m still on parole. The board’s going to send me right back to Walpole.”

Marty shook his head. “Not if I can convince them otherwise.”

As soon as I was out on bail I drove up to Northampton to see Martha. My arrest had made headlines in the Boston papers, and I knew I had some explaining to do. The question in my mind was what, exactly, I would tell her.

Martha wasn’t stupid; she knew full well the kind of person I was and who my associates were. She had met me in prison, after all, and I have no doubt that my roguishness was part of what made me attractive to her. But the Woolworth robbery and the bank heists were, I knew, much more than Martha had bargained for. She’d already had her suspicions. I worried that the Mashpee arrest would serve to confirm them once and for all.

As I’d feared, Martha was not thrilled by this latest development. But she was also very much in love with me, and love can make us overlook all sorts of transgressions.

“I swear,” I told her, “I was selling the paintings for Bobby. I had no idea they were stolen.”

Once again I felt uncomfortable lying to Martha. Once again I told myself the lie was for her own good, that she was better off not knowing the truth. But even I could see the justification was a hollow one.

“You really expect me to believe that?” Martha asked.

“Yes,” I said, thinking: It’s what you have to believe.

She grew uncharacteristically quiet. “Yes,” she said at last. It was not a statement of faith so much as it was one of surrender. “Yes, I believe you.”

As much as I wanted to believe that Marty Leppo could keep me from getting sent back to Walpole, I was skeptical. I knew better than to put my faith in the generosity of the parole board. I had already decided I would not be going back to prison, no matter what the board’s decision. I began working on a contingency plan to ensure I wouldn’t have to.

My idea was simple. If the board voted to revoke my parole, my crew would spring me from the hearing, by force if necessary.

I had no trouble convincing my friends to help me. The parole board was universally detested by everyone on my crew, all of whom had been forced to make at least one appearance before it. With few exceptions, the individuals who volunteered to sit on the parole board were contemptible human beings, small men who relished wielding their modicum of power. It was their holier-than-thou attitude that bothered us most, the pleasure they clearly took in sending ex-cons back to prison. The thought of turning the tables on them was extremely appealing. In fact, as the date of the hearing neared I found myself half hoping for an unfavorable decision.

The board met at the parole office down in Brockton, a rough-and-tumble suburb south of Boston. It was a place we all knew well. Inside the main entryway was a large lobby. Leading off the lobby was a long, wide corridor with rows of desks for the secretarial staff on either side. At the end of the corridor, glass double doors opened onto the hearing room, affording everyone in the lobby a clear view inside.

It was a perfect setup for what we had planned: Ralph, Billy, Sal, and Joe Santo would wait in the lobby while I went in for my hearing; when the board announced their decision, I’d give a signal-a hand across my forehead-if the news was bad. At that point the foursome would come rushing in, weapons drawn, and put the board and the parole officer, who was nothing more than a postman with a gun, down on the floor.

To my mind the biggest challenge would be keeping Marty in the dark. He knew and had represented everybody involved, and easily could have blown the whole setup if he’d recognized any of them. Fortunately, on the day of the hearing he was far too preoccupied with the details of the meeting to suspect a thing.

When Marty and I arrived at the parole office on the afternoon of my hearing my crew was already there, waiting in a van in the parking lot. I could see Ralph behind the wheel, his face hidden behind oversized sunglasses. Everyone else was in the back, well out of sight.

“Slow it down a minute, Myles,” Marty said as we went inside. “We have some good arguing points. The feds haven’t proven anything yet.”

I smiled. “Who said I’m worried?”

Normally, going before the parole board is akin to having a root canal without anesthetic. The process is an exercise in humiliation. As an ex-convict, you’re expected to offer up repentance for any past misdeeds, to swear off all your friends and the life of crime into which they led you once and might lead you again. And the best all this bowing and scrape can get you is another year or two under the thumb of the system.

At my last meeting with the board I’d put on a good show, promising to walk the straight and narrow. And for the most part I’d meant it. But this time I was so sure they were going to screw me once again that I couldn’t muster my usual charm.

From my seat before the board I could see straight down the corridor toward the lobby. Each time another one of my friends appeared, my attitude worsened.

Marty, on the other hand, was valiant in his efforts to convince the board to spare me. He reminded them of my exemplary conduct during the riots at Walpole and the near universal support I’d garnered in favor of my original parole.

“What’s wrong with you?” Marty asked testily as we waited in the corridor while the board deliberated.

“Not a thing,” I told him.

“Well, you didn’t exactly charm them, did you?”

I shrugged, imagining the smug looks on the faces of the board members melting at the sight of Ralph’s machine gun. Then the glass doors opened and we were called back inside.

Marty shook his head. You’re screwed, the gesture said.

Looking at the board, their features set in grim parodies of disappointment, I was certain he was right. I took a seat as directed and waited for the verdict.

“Mr. Connor,” the head of the board began, clearing his throat self-importantly, “after careful consideration, and despite grave misgivings, we have decided to take no action at this time. The terms of your parole remain unchanged, awaiting court action in the federal case.”

A reprieve, I thought, stunned by the unexpected decision. Instinctively, I reached up and wiped my brow, not realizing what I’d done until it was too late.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ralph start down the corridor, followed closely by Billy, who was already opening his coat and reaching for his gun. Joe and Sal were just a few steps behind them. Frantically, I waved them off, trying to keep my gestures inconspicuous, but they were all too focused on making it to the end of the corridor to notice.

One of the secretaries rose from her desk and stepped directly in Joe’s path. For an instant I was worried he might do something we’d all regret, but Joe politely moved aside, allowing her to pass.

“You will be expected to keep your nose clean this time, Mr. Connor,” the head of the board droned on. It was the same paternalistic speech I’d heard numerous times before. “Mr. Connor? Are you listening to me?” He stopped talking and glanced out the glass doors, looking directly at Ralph, who by now was mere feet away.

My heart stopped. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Billy’s gun slide back under his coat.

“Who is that man?”

I waved at Ralph, trying desperately to pantomime my intentions. He looked at me quizzically. Keeping my hands beneath the chair and out of the board’s sight, I waved him off again. Finally, he understood and turned back. “Old friend from Walpole,” I said. “Must be here meeting with his parole officer.”

The man nodded, watching Ralph retreat down the corridor. “As I was saying, Mr. Connor, you’re expected to steer clear of these types from now on.”

“Yes, sir,” I agreed, glancing at Marty, who was completely oblivious to what had just happened. “You won’t be sorry,” I said, putting on my best poker face.

“I hope not, Mr. Connor,” he said gravely.

With that, I was dismissed.