The Art of the Heist

Twenty-Seven

The Spinney-Webster convictions devastated me. I returned to Walpole in a fog of anger, raging against everyone who’d had a hand in putting me away. I can tell you right now, being pissed off is no way to do time. Prison is full of angry men, each dragged down by the weight of his rage. Those who survive being on the inside with any semblance of their humanity intact are those who learn to let go of the resentments that plague them. I had succeeded in doing this during my previous stays at Walpole, making the best of my situation, focusing on the future. But now with no future to look forward to, I was sick with anger.

Earle Cooley was angry too. He was a man who hated to lose, and the fact that he had underestimated Buckley bothered him immensely. Cooley and I had talked about the possibility of an appeal even before the jury announced their verdict. He had good reason to believe he might eventually win a new trial for me. The dismissal of Charles Graham from the jury was grounds enough for a review of the case by the Massachusetts Supreme Court. The fact that the presiding judge in the trial had limited Cooley’s cross-examination of Doreen Weeks was yet another strike in our favor.

But for the time being an appeal in the Spinney-Webster case would have to wait. The Brown shooting was scheduled to go to trial in November, giving Earle Cooley and me just a few months to prepare my defense. The prosecution’s claims in the Brown case were no less ridiculous than those made by Paul Buckley in the Spinney-Webster case, but Cooley and I had learned our lessons the first time around and were taking no chances. We both worked doggedly, hunting down friendly witnesses, looking for holes in the prosecution’s case. By the time the trial began we were as prepared as we could possibly be.

Considering the fact that Phil Beauchesne had spent nearly six years building a case against me in connection with the Brown shooting, the hand he showed the jury in his opening statement was surprisingly weak. Like Paul Buckley before him, Beauchesne had no intention of trying to prove I had actually committed the murder of which I stood accused.

All three of the state’s main witnesses, Tommy Sperrazza, Paul Cook, and Bobby Fitzgerald, readily attested to the fact that I had not been anywhere near the Purity Supreme Supermarket on the night of the holdup. Sperrazza himself admitted to having shot Brown, and Cook to having played the role of bagman. Only Ralph Petrozziello, who had driven the getaway car, had yet to admit to his role in the robbery, and he was on the run, having escaped from prison in Concord several months earlier.

The only charges against me Beauchesne had been able to make stick were those of accessory before the fact to robbery and murder. And in order to gather enough evidence to win an indictment, he’d had to grant full immunity from prosecution to Sperrazza, Cook, and Fitzgerald.

It was an untenable position on the part of the prosecution, to say the least.

Fitzgerald was the first witness to testify. He told the jury that in March 1974 I’d asked him to keep two handguns and a British-made Lee-Enfield.303 rifle, the same gun that was used to kill Paul Brown, at his apartment for me, and that I then returned a week before the Purity Supreme holdup to retrieve the weapons. Fitzgerald also claimed that he had disposed of the Lee-Enfield rifle after the robbery by throwing it into the Cambridge Reservoir.

Cook and Sperrazza reiterated Fitzgerald’s testimony, saying I had provided the guns that were used in the holdup. Both men also claimed that I had planned the robbery, giving them specific instructions at a meeting at Ralph Petrozziello’s house the night beforehand. According to Sperrazza, I had even gone so far as to tell him that he should be the one to carry the rifle, and had instructed him to shoot the guard who would be accompanying the supermarket manager to make the deposit if he so much as reached for his gun.

In his cross-examinations Earle Cooley skillfully attacked the credibility of all three witnesses, reminding jurors of Bobby Fitzgerald’s participation in the witness protection program and of the fact that all of the men-and Sperrazza’s family-had been given blanket immunity in exchange for their testimony.

But Cooley didn’t stop there. He had a number of witnesses lined up to testify in my defense, including a man named Warren Dougan. Dougan was serving a life sentence in Walpole at the time of the trial. But in the spring of 1974, when the Purity Supreme holdup took place, Dougan had been the leader of a Hyde Park motorcycle club. He was also a major supplier of illegal weapons. Dougan testified to having sold Sperrazza a Lee-Enfield rifle in early May 1974 in exchange for two pounds of Mexican marijuana.

Perhaps the most important defense witness was the Boston cop who’d originally interviewed Sperrazza and Fitzgerald regarding the shooting. Not only had he been a lifelong friend of Brown’s, but he had been one of the first cops to arrive at the scene on the night of the shooting and had held the dying Brown in his arms.

I was slightly uneasy when Earle Cooley told me that he would be taking the stand in my defense. Watching the reactions of John Clougherty and John Connolly when Earle Cooley called his witness to the stand, I could tell that FBI men were incredulous. No doubt they assumed the man would turn on me during his testimony. But nothing could have been further from the truth.

“When did you suspect Myles Connor was involved in the Purity Supreme holdup?” Cooley asked the officer.

“Never,” he replied.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the two G-men flinch.

“Mr. Connor’s name didn’t come up in a single interview I conducted,” the officer elaborated.

Earle Cooley was silent for a moment, letting the jury ponder this information. “Not long after you began your investigation,” Earle began at last, “you were taken off the case. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us why that happened?”

“Sure,” the officer replied eagerly. “The DA wanted me to frame Myles. I wouldn’t go along with it, so they booted me off the case.”

This time, Connolly and Clougherty did more than flinch. When I looked over I could see their mouths hanging open in disbelief.

Without a doubt the most memorable twist in the Brown case took place outside of the courtroom. Because of my reputation the trial was fairly big news in Boston. One afternoon a local AM talk radio host was discussing the trial on his call-in show when he suddenly announced that he had Ralph Petrozziello on the line. Ralph, who was still on the run and very much a wanted man, had called in to defend me. On live radio he announced that he, Cook, and Sperrazza had planned and executed the holdup and that I’d had nothing to do with it.

By the end of the trial I knew my chances for an acquittal were good. Even so, as the jury filed out of the courtroom to begin their deliberations I reminded myself to prepare for the worst. Fortunately, I didn’t have long to dwell on my possible fate. After less than an hour and a half of deliberations, the jury announced that they had reached their verdict.

Most people like to believe that a quick verdict bodes well for the defense, as any reasonable juror would want to take his or her time sending even the most obviously guilty man to prison. Having known my share of unreasonable jurors over the years, I wasn’t sure what to think. But I needn’t have worried. In one of the shortest deliberations in a murder case in Massachusetts history, the jury of eight women and four men had unanimously voted in favor of an acquittal.

When the verdict was read I glanced over at Phil Beauchesne. The prosecutor was slumped in his chair, staring at the jury. He looked like a boxer who’d just taken a knockout punch.

Vindication is a sweet thing, and the memory of Beauchesne’s face when the jury foreman announced the not-guilty verdict in the Brown case carried me through many a long night at Walpole. The jury’s decision also gave me hope that I might eventually be acquitted of the Spinney-Webster murders as well. With the Brown case behind him, Earle Cooley began working to bring an appeal before the state Supreme Court.

The Spinney-Webster convictions cost me dearly, but they took their heaviest toll on my father, who was unable to come to terms with the fact that his eldest son had been found guilty of such a horrible crime. I can’t say he lost his faith in me, but he was a man with a deep and abiding respect for the law, and I’m sure he was torn between his love for me and his trust in the justice system.

Not long after I was sentenced for the murders and returned to Walpole, my father passed away. That he died without seeing me vindicated has been the greatest tragedy of my life.

In the years immediately following the trial I had few visitors at Walpole. My mother, who was in poor health, continued to make the grueling trip on a regular basis, along with my sister, Patsy. I had another regular visitor as well: a young woman named Suzanne King.

Susie and I had been introduced to each other by a mutual friend during my previous parole. An Audrey Hepburn look-alike, Susie had been a huge fan of mine and a Beachcomber regular for some time. Like many of the young women who came to my shows, she had a stagefront crush on me. Susie was still a teenager when we first met, far too young for me to be interested in her romantically. But drawn to each other by our mutual love of animals and by a shared interest in martial arts, we quickly became friends.

Susie adored all creatures, but she especially loved horses. She’d started working at a stable near her house in South Boston in return for riding privileges at the age of eight. By nine she was walking the streets of Southie selling pony rides. Her dream, one I shared with her, was to one day own a small piece of property on which she could keep horses and other animals. Despite the age difference, I eventually found myself falling for her.

After the Spinney-Webster indictments were handed down I fully expected Susie to abandon our friendship. I certainly would not have blamed her for doing so. Yet she was fearless and fiercely loyal, a force to be reckoned with. She eventually became one of my most vocal defenders, showing up in court every day during all three of my trials, often accompanying my mother, to whom she was devoted.

Susie was equally religious about coming to see me in Walpole. She was there six days a week, every week, for five long years. In those days, prison policy was much more lax than it is now. On nice days inmates and visitors were allowed to sit outside together on the prison lawn. We could touch each other, and even hug and kiss. Susie never came to see me empty-handed. Generally, she brought food of some kind or another, sometimes cases of it.

It’s difficult to imagine what those years would have been like without Susie. That I survived them with my sanity intact is due in no small part to her love and unwavering support.