-Caveat Lector- an excerpt from: Loud and Clear Lake Headly and William Hoffman©1990 Henry Holt and Company 115 W. 18th St. New York, NY 10011 ISBN 0-8050-1138-2 272 pps — out-of-print/one edition --[17]-- 17 New Mexico Dynamite "I've started to eat," Jim Robison told me when I visited him one day in early June. "Good. I'm glad you've given up that starvation routine. I think you and Max are going to get out of here." I was indeed pleased, and told. Jim the unvarnished truth. The JoDon, Nation, and Hawkins information, piled atop so much else, plus many official documents disputing the prosecution's version (such as "loud and clear"), all combined to form a veritable Everest of evidence against which I didn't think the state's case could stand. "I agree our chances look better," Robison said. "The Hawkins stuff is powerful. It was good of Ralph to help, and I don't think it's hopeless anymore." This very strong man acted embarrassed and almost sheepish, like an alcoholic who stays off the sauce for several months, then relapses. Falling off the starvation wagon, however, marked definite progress. "How long did you go?" I asked. "I don't know. Maybe a hundred days." I counted it in my head. It was a hundred and five. Jim, pale, shaky, and weak, had lost at least eighty pounds. Wisely, he had resumed his food intake cautiously: orange juice, oatmeal, only soft foods. Although Jim's body bore the scars of his slow journey into the valley of death, his eyes twinkled with the rebirth of faith, a Lazarus rising from the grave. "I just don't see," I said, not wanting to darken his mood, "how the press and prosecution can ignore Hawkins's information." "Maybe so. But one thing will never change. Lake, as I've told you over and over, these people adhere to only one principle: Cover Your Ass. They'll never admit they did a lousy job, that they flat-out did wrong. just yesterday, one of the hacks came around and said, 'Why are you going through this? Give 'em what they want, and they'll bring a limousine around to take you away from here.' " "They still want you to finger Marley?" "Sure. Marley. That's all it's ever been." I thought about Kemper Marley on my drive back to Phoenix. Clearly there had to be a mastermind, a money man, behind the scenes, and Marley had been earmarked for the role. Why? And why did the state and the press continue to cling desperately to the original discredited version of the murder, even though the case against Marley, resting on Adamson's word alone, had disintegrated when the alleged motive proved to be no motive, when a Bolles article or evidence of a Bolles investigation did not cost him a post on the racing commission? My own best hunch was that both the Phoenix police and the Phoenix newspapers, part and parcel of the Establishment's soul, had tried to put it on Marley because he was a loner, because he was not a member of the Establishment. Yet somebody had called for the reporter's murder, and clearly the Establishment was wallowing in guilt—probably over the murder and surely over the coverup—and hoping that by ignoring bad news like the purging of File #851 the nightmare would somehow go away. The papers saw the Bolles case as a downtown High Noon bombing bad for the image of Phoenix. Thus-keep it closed. If it reopened in full swing now, it would be worse than the first time around. Too bad. I wasn't going away, and neither were Devereux, Marshall, Naomi, Terri Lee, nor Playboy and The New York Times. It was getting to be like Watergate: there was always more. And as with Watergate, the more that came out, the more the established powers tried to stonewall. Terri Lee and I had been working together virtually every free hour she had (she was attending college and holding down the bartender job) and we had grown closer and closer. I couldn't believe my luck: a young, beautiful woman who didn't seem a whit perplexed by what had turned into a serious romance with a guy pushing fifty. Also, it was a pain to separate each night and then regroup early the next morning to plot the day's activities. But my concern went much deeper than saving time and gas. I'd fallen in love and wanted to be with her all the time, but hesitated to suggest a different arrangement. Don't be an old fool, I told myself, cursing our age difference. It wouldn't be fair to her. So, when I returned from visiting Robison, I wasn't prepared for what Terri Lee said over brunch. "I found a place," she said, "that we can rent on Camelback. A one-bedroom, unfurnished apartment. I can fix it up really nice, and there's lots of light for my plants." We can rent on Camelback? "I'll take care of all the details. Of course, I want you to look it over first, see if you like it." The apartment was in a one-story, adobe brick complex, directly across the street from the high school Terri had attended. "Like it?" she asked. "Love it." I really did, though I would have eagerly settled into the Bates Motel if she'd been part of the package. CHICAGO, ILLINOIS. JULY 10, 1979 Don Devereux's research had uncovered another previously withheld police report, dated June 20, 1976, and written by Phoenix police officer Terry Rhiel. The report described the activities of William Rocco "(Rocky)" D'Ambrosio, Frank Mossuto, Dan Basil, and a man with the last name of Perry. Here's what Rhiel wrote in that vital police report the prosecution didn't bother to include in the discovery:, On 6-19-76 at 2300 hours, I contacted Officer Ron Dean, Scottsdale P.D., reference an informant of his who had some information on the Bolles case. This informant is reliable and confidential to Dean. Upon my arrival at Scottsdale P.D., I was introduced to this informant and was told by him that his name was not to be used in any capacity as his life would be endangered. Officer Dean could vouch for his ability and knowledge of the people involved. This informant has known all participants for various lengths of time; from D'Ambrosio for years, to Perry for several months. The informant is in and out of town, and two months ago (unable to pin down further) the informant was running odd jobs for Rocky out of the Scottsdale Towers. He described Rocky as being the main man at the Scottsdale Tower bar, but Frank is always with him. Frank allegedly has no criminal record so his name is on the liquor license. Both Frank and Rocky work for Mike Robinson w/m 60, who owns Scottsdale Towers. According to the informant, Robinson has strong Mafia connections to Chicago and Rocky and Frank do not make a move without Robinson knowing about it. Robinson is wealthy and has political ties to Goldwater. Robinson also has an ex-partner, and still good friend, named Lee Goines w/m 50 (not positive on last name). Goines is allegedly a member of the Dixie Mafia and owns an investment company in the valley. The only known connection at this time is that Goines and Robinson know what the other is doing. At this time, two months ago, Rocky's mother, or mother-in-law's car broke down in Grants, N.M., and he asked the informant to go pick it up. Frank then said that since he was going to N.M., how about picking up some dynamite? The informant went to Grants, then Gallup. While in Gallup, he contacted Dan Basil, who was tending bar at The Village Lounge, and asked him about some dynamite. Basil put him in touch with Perry. Perry told him he'd get him a case for $500 (which according to the informant is about $300 more than the going rate). The informant told him O.K. and returned to Phoenix. (This trip was two days.) After returning to Phoenix, the informant contacted Rocky and Frank and told them the deal. Both agreed and Frank told him to get #8 or #9 dynamite as it worked better. The informant had meanwhile told them he would set the deal up but wouldn't transport it. They agreed and Frank handed him five $100 bills. The informant was in Phoenix three days, then returned to Gallup and paid Perry. The informant later heard that a week later someone picked the dynamite up. Since that time, the informant has been bouncing back and forth between Gallup and Phoenix. He has been mostly in Gallup because Rocky and Frank don't want him around the city. Right after he paid Perry, and was back in Phoenix, he heard Rocky and Frank talking in the office. They kept mentioning "reporter," but he did not hear a name. They also asked him a couple of times if he wanted to make "five grand," and he told them no way. When asked about Adamson, the informant stated that he (Adamson) wasn't smart enough to do a deal like Bolles. In his opinion Rocky wasn't either, it would have to come from Robinson. He stated Adamson and a guy named "Dan" used to run "Bluebird Towing" out around the dog track. Both subjects knew Rocky from there and also from the Roman Gate, on E. Camelback. Rocky used to have part of the Roman Gate, along with John Hobson and the Verive brothers, Carl and John (last name uncertain). Hobson, Rocky and Adamson were fairly tight before Rocky went to prison and they still keep in touch. The informant said Hobson has been involved in some "heavy" deals, but refused to elaborate further at this time. Unbelievably, the police hadn't bothered to follow up on Rhiel's report. Devereux, once put on the scent, had traced D'Ambrosio to Chicago, and obtained a phone number. I called and set up a lunch meeting with D'Ambrosio at the Drake Hotel. Devereux wanted to go with me, but he already carried two jobs, with the migrant worker's union and the Scottsdale Daily Progress. D'Ambrosio looked the part: solid, built like a slab of concrete, dark complexion—a tough guy with a gravel voice. "How do you like being back in Chicago?" I began. "I prefer Arizona. But I got too much heat down there." I didn't ask him for what. "They're giving me trouble, too," I said, attempting to put myself in with him, to show I wasn't a cop. I mentioned the issue of my p.i. license, and my status as persona non grata in certain high Arizona circles. "You didn't come all the way to Chicago to discuss heat. What do you want to ask me?" "Don Devereux with the Scottsdale Progress has found information that in 1976 you bought dynamite in Gallup, New Mexico. Is that true?" "I never bought any dynamite anyplace. I don't know what the hell you're talking about." "According to Devereux's information, you sent a guy to New Mexico in April of '76 to pick up a broken-down car. On the way back, he made arrangements to obtain dynamite from a man named Perry." "Well, the first part's right. I had a car picked up. But the guy didn't stop in Gallup, I don't know nobody named Perry, and I sure never bought no dynamite." "You know somebody named Frank Mossuto?" "Yeah. He's a friend of mine." "What's Mossuto doing now?" "Selling used cars in San Diego." "You know John Adamson, right?" "You're talking about the Bolles killing, and I had nothing to do with that. But, yeah, I know who Adamson is. He came in the Scottsdale Towers a few times. I thought he was a piece of shit. I didn't want nothing to do with him. They got the right guy with Adamson in the Bolles thing, but from what I hear—and I got good connections—Dunlap and Robison didn't have nothing to do with it." I viewed myself as a baseball player stepping up to the plate, with three strikes allowed. I had swung and missed at D'Ambrosio, but Devereux and I later drove to Gallup and located Perry, a black man who worked in a junkyard (also, as a small-time fence). Perry denied knowing anything about buying or selling dynamite. "That's illegal, isn't it?" he asked. Strike two. I flew to San Diego and tracked down Frank Mossuto through the state licensing bureau (California requires a license to sell used cars). I left a message at his car lot, and he returned my call, probably thinking I was a customer. "Mr. Headley, this is Frank Mossuto." "Mr. Mossuto, I need to talk to you." "What about?" "I'm working on the Don Bolles case, and I'd like—" Mossuto's voice exploded in my ear. "I don't want to talk about the Bolles case. Not now, not ever." He hung up. Strike three. I'd obtained virtually nothing from D'Ambrosio, Perry, and Mossuto, and lacking prosecutorial authority—the means to call them to testify in front of a grand jury—my chances of getting more information were nil. Yet here again was a clear instance of certain people knowing Bolles was slated to die, and there had been no police follow-up. Had these three been players? Certainly someone had filled the roles of Robison (the detonator of the bomb), Dunlap (the middleman between the money man and those executing the hit), and the mastermind himself (the role falsely assigned to Kemper Marley). Meanwhile, with police and prosecutors reporting no progress in their "ongoing" investigation into the Bolles murder, the issue of my practicing as a private investigator without a license was edging its way from back burner to front. If convicted, as I expected would happen, I faced six months in jail and a onethousand-dollar fine. Far down the line, at some distant point, in an appeals court, I knew I likely would win, but wasting time fighting this battle would mean that my activity in the Bolles investigation would grind to a halt. Don Devereux rescued me from the state by introducing me to retired Phoenix police detective Tom Atchinson, who had the required year's residency to obtain a license. By Arizona law, I wouldn't need a p.i. license if I worked for someone who already had one. The situation was analogous to owning a tavern: an owner must be licensed, but not his employees. Despite affidavits from Bill Helmer and Molly Ivins verifying my position as a journalist, I was headed, in hostile Arizona, for a conviction, until the Atchinson opportunity presented itself. I paid for his p.i. license, and he hired Terri Lee and me. The state still could have split hairs and prosecuted for the time I had worked unlicensed, but that would have been too draconian, even for Arizona. The authorities said they wanted me to function legally in their state, and I had now complied. More significant, I suspected, was an underlying fear that if I were brought to court, and Bruce Babbitt, Robert Corbin, William Schafer, and Jon Sellers were called as witnesses, my defense counsel, George Vlassis, would attempt to turn my trial into a retrial of the Bolles murder, with all the predictable attendant publicity. if that's indeed what Babbitt and the others feared, they had reason. Eventually, the previously retired Tom Atchinson actually discovered a new career as a private investigator. He did pretty well, I hear, which makes me happy. He put himself on the line for us. pps. 183-191 --[cont]-- Aloha, He'Ping, Om, Shalom, Salaam. Em Hotep, Peace Be, Omnia Bona Bonis, All My Relations. Adieu, Adios, Aloha. Amen. Roads End Kris DECLARATION & DISCLAIMER ========== CTRL is a discussion and informational exchange list. Proselyzting propagandic screeds are not allowed. 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