My Time with the Mob

I don’t really know very much about the Mob with a capital M. My philosophy is that the less you know about the Mob the better. I still haven’t seen every episode of The Sopranos.

However, unlike Justice Potter who remarked about obscenity—“I know it when I see it”—I, apparently, don’t know the Mob when I see it. At least I didn’t back in the 80s and 90s an era of New York Mob superstars: Carlo Gambini, Paul Castellano and John Gotti. They were all over the news even after death. I’d seen the stories but really hadn’t paid any attention. As for the New Jersey mob? I knew it existed but wouldn’t recognize a name or a face if I walked onto a room full of Jersey mobsters. 

Which brings me to . . . 

Late one Sunday afternoon a couple of friends and I arrived in a northern New Jersey town too early to show up at a party. Eating was always a good way to kill time. Starbucks was not yet an option in New Jersey so we looked around for a restaurant. Pre-Internet that meant driving around searching for one. Let’s call the one we found Ristorante Italiano because it’s generic and that was not its name.

In retrospect, the first sign that the place we selected was unusual? We could not even get a glimpse of the interior. The windows were covered and if the door had a window it was small, placed high and filled with tinted glass. The details are gone from my memory but the general impression is clear. We had no idea what we were walking into.

As we stepped through the entrance, everyone, and I do mean everyone, in the restaurant turned to look at us. They continued to watch as a very pleasant maitre d’ rushed forward not so much to greet us as to stop us. It was a small place with a dozen tables or so and we could see that just about all of them were occupied. So, we didn’t question him when he said they were full. Maybe we looked as if we were starving, harmless and clueless. We weren’t really starving but his other two assessments were dead on. He relented and told us the owner wasn’t there that evening. We could sit at his table. 

He led us past the other diners to a round table at the rear of the restaurant not far from the door to the kitchen. Not a traditionally good table but ideally situated for a quick getaway should an undesirable type such as a law officer with a warrant or a mob enforcer with a gun come through the front door. 

We may have noticed the clientele was predominantly Italian but if we did we would have seen that as a positive. Where better to eat Italian food than at a place where well-heeled Italians ate?

The table was too big for a party of three but we settled around one side of the table that we were lucky to get. The food was delicious and the conversation, lively. We laughed a lot—about what I have no idea. I don’t recall if we ever questioned the professional affiliations of the other diners but if we did we knew enough not to laugh about that.

After a great meal, we moved on to the party that had brought us to town. Except for the red sauce (or gravy if you prefer), we didn’t think much about the experience.

Until . . . 

Within weeks or maybe months of our visit to Ristorante Italiano, the New York Times noted that several high-ranking members of the leading New Jersey crime family had been arrested. Where did the feds get the evidence for the indictments? Wiretaps especially the one that had been in place for many months at the owner’s table at the Ristorante Italiano.

My friends and I were not included in the indictments. 

© 2024 Jane Kelly

My Life in Crime

Picture 1969. Hippies. Drugs. Psychedelic music. People having wild times at wild parties even in the least wild of locales. 

Then picture a sober, twenty-year-old plainly-dressed girl sitting with a similarly attired friend and four completely sober, clean-cut, twenty-ish, varsity rowers exchanging ghost stories in an old summer rental house at the New Jersey Shore. You would probably think that would be the least likely spot for a police raid on August 23, 1969. You would be wrong.

It wasn’t even midnight when a fellow named George sauntered into the all-purpose room where we had gathered. “There are police swarming around the building. I wonder what’s going on.” 

Turned out we were what was going on.

I don’t know how many cops burst into the apartment but I do know it was more than needed. They weren’t exactly taking down the Weather Underground.

I briefly considered hiding but figured I wouldn’t get away with it. I let a long-forgotten officer lead me outside. I didn’t resist. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t look around to see if I knew anyone in the crowd that gathered. To tell you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, I don’t recall anything about the walk from the house or the ride to the police station. It couldn’t have been very long. I vaguely recall being rushed inside. Only then did I learn why I was there. 

Someone had turned up a radio in the back of the house. I couldn’t hear the music, but apparently the man next door could. He called the cops. 

All six of us in the house were charged with a noise violation. The cops couldn’t even find an instance of underage drinking in the group. We had to be the tamest crowd assembled on the entire island that night.  

Probably afraid we would get ahold of some transistor radios and hit the streets endangering the ears of innocent victims, the police did not offer us the opportunity to post bail that night.

My friend—I’ll call her Betty—and I were separated from the male criminals in our party, or should I say gang, and driven to the County Jail. I didn’t consider escaping because I had no idea where we were and, frankly, I was not wearing comfortable shoes. 

Besides, it was a summer Saturday night at the Shore. The jail would just be a somewhat subdued party with other kids. Right? I’ll repeat the term County Jail and let you figure that one out for yourself.

We pulled into a classic prison yard surrounded by brick buildings. I’d seen places like this in the movies (black and white films only) but never expected to visit one. Especially in the middle of the night in the back seat of a police cruiser.

Our custody was turned over to a male policeman that today I could not pick out in a line-up. I might not remember his face or his name but I do remember his attitude. Not good. He had no patience for hardened criminals like us. He made us sign what looked like a guest book but we weren’t fooled. There was no space to rate or comment on the service. 

After a few formalities—no mug shot, no fingerprints—he called a female officer into his office and told her where to put us. “Not with her!” The matron’s face contorted with horror. Sadly, her only power appeared to be over us. I came to suspect she might not be in the right line of work but she did her job and introduced us to our new life inside.

First off, we had to pick up our bedding. I shudder recalling that I ever touched the thin mattress let alone clutched it to me as we were led to our cell block. (Note to self: create a list of phrases you never thought you’d use.) To get there we were paraded through a row of cells. Male arms—in my memory they were big, strong and hairy—extended through the bars of each one. Hands made grabs for us but luckily none connected. I remember foul sounds and I can only imagine they were matched with foul words. As with the cops, I couldn’t pick any of the inmates out of a line-up which is, I suspect, where they were most likely to be found over the years. These were not kids who partied too hard.  These were criminals. In a county jail. Imagine that.

People might tell you they’ll never forget the moment those cell doors clanked shut behind them. I do. However, I didn’t forget that Betty and I ended up in a jail cell built for three. We had to share.

“I don’t know why he put you in with her,” the matron mumbled as she locked us in. The look on her face and the tone in her voice when she said “her” made me think that our new roommate—excuse me cellmate—was not incarcerated for playing loud music.  The guard did not stick around to answer our questions. There was no introduction, no orientation. 

Our cell, was brightly lit but the rest of the cell block was dark and silent. Betty and I could have had our pick of accommodations. Instead we would be occupying bunk beds across from a woman lounging in what I assumed was the premium spot. To be fair, she was a large women and needed the bigger cot. She didn’t make a move to greet us. Her only action was leaning forward occasionally to spit into a styrofoam cup. 

I am generally a big chit-chatter but I was a little distracted by a digestive system that was betraying my outward calm. So, Betty took it upon herself to get to know our cellmate. Since there were no doors in the cell I could hear her attempt at prison chatter over the churning of my stomach.

BETTY: “What are you in for?”

CELLMATE: “I cut up a woman.”

BETTY: “Where is she now?”

CELLMATE: “She’s dead.”

We couldn’t help assuming that there might be some cause and effect between the cutting up and the death. Neither of us made any further attempt at conversation.

We knew the boys—excuse  me our partners in crime—had arrived when Billy yelled out. “Don’t worry, girls. We’ll get you out.” A nice show of bravado but completely implausible since he and the others were being led to their cell. 

The night was so long we could have been in Stockholm in midwinter. At least that is how it felt. Wake-up time was signaled by the arrival of the same prison matron carrying a metal tray filled with . . . hard to say. Our cellmate assured us the gelatinous glop, tastefully presented in a battered metal tray the same color as the food, was edible. She wolfed it down. My stomach urged me not to risk it. My brain agreed. Surely we’d be out by lunch.

I won’t go into the details of how, in the ice age of banking, our bail money arrived because I have no idea. I assume Western Union was involved.

Neither will I share the details of our release although I can testify the traditional walk of shame has nothing on the ride of shame when the police car you’re riding in stops outside the Catholic Church just as the last mass is letting out.

Speaking of testimony, I’ll skip ahead to the trial. 

I didn’t usually feel entitled but I do generally feel lucky. So, I took it for granted when a friend’s father’s friend, who happened to be on the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania, and who happened to be on vacation at the Shore, and who happened (I assume) to be licensed to practice in New Jersey showed up to defend us. Spoiler alert: we were acquitted and our record expunged.

I suspect the powerhouse defense could have been a detriment but the prosecution did have a pretty weak case. They tried to impugn Betty’s and my morals when the prosecutor asked “What room were they in when you arrested them?” 

The cop feigned distress as if he hated to say it. “The bedroom.” I guess they wanted to expose the sweet little college girls as shameless hussies engaged in all types of wanton behavior. 

Our attorney wasn’t going to let that happen. Even before I’d watched twenty seasons of Law & Order, I knew that was irrelevant. Our attorney took a simpler approach and established that there was no bed in this “bedroom.”

In today’s world, we’d probably sue. We’d been arrested for playing music that we couldn’t hear, paraded through a crowd of onlookers, denied our one phone call, forced to spend the night in the county jail and made to share a cell with an alleged murderer.  

But the worst indignity? The song on the radio? “ Sugar Sugar” by the Archies. 

© 2024 Jane Kelly

Note to self: the big C

Some thoughts on the occasion of the two year anniversary of your cancer diagnosis.

On the afternoon of March 16, 2022, you called your doctor’s office to say that you found a lump in your left breast and to ask what the next step was. “The next step is you come here at ten tomorrow morning.” And, so began a journey that has taken longer than you ever imagined and is not quite over. In a way it is never over but it looks like you can finally move it to the background.

Here, in no particular order, are a few thoughts about what you learned.

Anyone can get it. No one in your family ever had cancer of any kind. You had absolutely no fear of getting cancer. Kellys did not get cancer. Apparently they do. You were diagnosed in March, 2022. Your brother was diagnosed in the summer of 2023 and gone before Thanksgiving. Your genetic testing was clean and you still got it. Remind people. Anyone can get it.

Before talking about cancer, assess your audience. Preface any conversation with “I don’t know if you’ve experienced this yourself or been with someone who has . . . .” It is amazing and distressing how often you will find yourself talking to current patients, cancer survivors or their family members.

One of the greatest revelations was just how many friends you had and how wonderful they were. If able to thank them in an Oscar night speech, the music would play you off before you could name ten percent of them.  To list the kindnesses shown would take the entire show.

Everyone’s cancer is different. Everyone’s reaction to cancer drugs is different. Don’t compare yourself to other patients. There are many reasons Facebook groups are helpful. For one thing, they let you see people who have much worse situations: medical, financial, familial, professional, social. Every aspect of life is affected. If you don’t have the same struggles, feel grateful not guilty. If you seem to be having a harder time than others, it’s not your fault. Do not feel guilty.

Admit you worry about your hair. Losing hair is the least of a cancer patient’s problems but you discovered hair is symbolic. You had no issue with going bald during chemo. Hair of some variety would be back. But thinning hair from long term medications was more upsetting. It could be a warning about what else the drug might be doing inside your body. But, even more importantly, it symbolizes that things are different now when all you want is for things to be the way they were.

You tried to find some humor in a very serious topic. You should be allowed to laugh when your pants drop to your ankles in a public place. Even if no one was there to see it, empirically, it was funny. It’s ironic when your hair starts coming back on your upper lip first, then on your scalp. There were other funny occurrences. Admittedly, not many. You just need time to think of them.

You had to introduce yourself after chemo. You didn’t recognize yourself so how could others recognize you? You never took offense. You took the offense and told everyone who you were. The same person you were before - just smaller and grayer. At least you will be after all the brain fog clears. You hope.  Brain fog is real. 

© 2024 Jane Kelly

The Ghosts We Know

A little background. I am a slider. Or at least I claim to be a slider. Sliders can only claim slider powers. There is no scientific proof that we exist. 

For years, I didn’t even know that there was a term for my totally useless super power. I did know there had to be others with similar experiences somewhere out there. I might have met one or two of them in my lifetime. The topic doesn’t come up in conversation easily or often. And, it is not met with universal interest. 

Then, over twenty years after the Internet arrived—being quick on the uptake is not one of my super powers—it occurred to me that I could search for people who turn street lights off. And that is when I discovered the term slider.

Street Light Interference. Scorned by science. Debunked by experiments. A phenomenon whereby individuals by their mere presence cause street lights to go off well beyond a frequency that chance would dictate. 

I demonstrated this ability to a friend one night in the parking lot of a suburban office building making him walk with me back and forth under a street lamp. Walk under it. It goes off. Walk under it again. It goes on. Repeat. Many times. The experiment never failed. I am not sure he was convinced. Actually, I am pretty sure he wasn’t but he was kind enough not to debate the issue, then or when it came up a few times in the course of our friendship.

Within a year or two, our friendship came to an abrupt end. We argued. I assumed I would never see him again.

Then came the worst thing possible when you have unresolved issues with someone. He died. Unexpectedly. Before he even got to have a fortieth birthday. 

So, although I do not routinely try to communicate with the dead, one winter night on a cold beach I sent an unspoken message. “I know you have a big family and a lot of closer friends to get around to, but when you have a minute, could you drop by and give me a sign that things are good between us?” I did not expect a response. I didn’t even feel sure about the whole afterlife thing.

Not long afterwards I was at a restaurant in Boston that we had visited together. I saw the seats at the bar where we sat were open and took one of them. He had only been dead for a short time. Maybe only weeks. 

So, he was on my mind when I was in the restaurant and when I went to retrieve my car from a multi-level parking lot. 

I got in the elevator with one other person, a businessman who positioned himself in a back corner as far away from the button panel as possible. I stood in the middle on the opposite side nowhere near the panel. The doors began to shut and suddenly bounced open, the way they do when they hit the arm of a latecomer trying to hold the elevator. But there was no arm. There was no latecomer. No one got in. We could see no one was in the lobby. We were alone. Or were we?

The other passenger uttered a sentence I’d never heard before. “Looks like we’re riding with an invisible man.”

“Don’t worry.” I told him. “I think he’s with me.”

We both chuckled.

I exited the elevator liking the idea that I had an invisible man in tow. 

Smiling, I walked forty yards down the ramp before I realized I was going in the wrong direction. In the instant that I turned to reverse direction, undeniably simultaneously, the overhead light at the top of the ramp turned off. Not my doing. I was too far away.

An overwhelming feeling of relief washed over me. 

Do I believe the light going out was my friend telling me all was good, we were good? I did at the time. Over the many years that have passed, did I consider that the light’s snapping off was a mere coincidence? My brain did. But I remember the warm feeling I experienced. Do I believe I got a message from the other side saying all was okay?

I choose to believe I did.

© 2024 Jane Kelly