Spiders Without Webs

By Joe Lattera

"Spiders Without Webs" is a Psychological Crime Fiction Novel. The
setting occurs mainly in South Philadelphia. The characters vary from felons
who reside in a halfway house after recently being paroled from the
penitentiary, as well as a Parole Officer whose unorthodox ways of dealing
with his clients causes conflict within the world of the justice system.
Perhaps the most interesting character is a psychiatrist who is employed by
the state to oversee the mental health of those incarcerated, and who has a
unique remedy to cure the various disorders of those who have been convicted
of crimes. However, the unethical practices of the doctor and his group of
colleagues, in their quest for fame and fortune, cause devastation to not
only their patients, but to the innocent who come into contact with them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387836024

Book preview

Spiders Without Webs

Spiders Without Webs

Disclaimer

ADULT CONTENT

SEXUAL SITUATIONS

VIOLENCE

RAMPANT DRUG USE

Chapter                             One

Gerald Jerry Pizzo exited the bathroom of his one bedroom dingy apartment,

dressed only in a pair of short pants. At thirty-five years old, his six

feet, two inch frame was rippled with muscle. Numerous scars and tattoos

crossed and overlapped some of those muscles, most of them acquired by

prison artists while serving various sentences since the age of 13. He had

been on the streets for the last 4 months at present, after serving 5 years

of a 5 to 10 year sentence at Rockledge State Penitentiary.

Although he went back to the same neighborhood and bad habits, he avoided

the police and had no trouble with the law for almost 5 months. He went to

work for a friend he'd grown up with renovating houses. By day he would gut

and then rebuild homes, but it was at night when he would make the big

money. He had met many criminals while in the joint, and before being

paroled he was given connections to drug dealers from North Philly. Most of

them were Puerto Ricans from the Kensington section of the city where some

intersections were bought and sold for hundreds of thousands of dollars to

deal heroin or crack cocaine on the corners. One intersection exceeded the

total amount value of all real estate in a given block in the

poverty-stricken area.

Jerry would make the 20 minute ride from South Philly north on I-95 once a

week, pick up his package, and would be making sales and profits within an

hour's time. The laborers job kept him honest with his parole officer at the

time, and it also became a meeting place to make his drug deals. No one ever

suspected or noticed the transactions being made while he'd be swinging his

sledge hammer amongst other workers, installing drywall, or making estimates

in the evening hours on the various properties he'd be working on. He even

utilized these shells as hiding spots for his stash just in case his parole

officer made a surprise visit to his residence and searched it.

But then one day, because of his greedy nature and heart of contempt, his

freedom and clean parole record came plummeting down like the old bricks he

extracted from decrepit buildings. A girl he had dated for a few months

had dimed him out to the police. She was a Jewish girl, raised spoiled by

her parents in the north east section of the city. They had met at a club on

South Street, and she immediately fell in love with Jerry's rugged looks and

character. She was turned on by his kinky sexual preferences and animal rage

he exuded during their sexual acts. Although to Jerry, Paula Kesslar had a

pretty face and a body that seemed to be custom-made as a sex-machine, he was

attracted more to the money her parents gave her.

After only their third date, Jerry thought it was time to test the waters

and see just how deep that well of money was. He gave her a sob story of how

his boss was hinting about laying him off because work had become slow

due to the economy being bad and people just weren't buying, fixing and

selling property as in the recent past. He told her he thought his boss was

full of shit and that there was a big market out there, and that his boss

just didn't like him and wanted to get rid of him. Tears welled up in his

eyes as he told her that one time while on lunch at work, the boss's wife

drove up in a Jaguar and started flirting with him. Ever since then the

boss's attitude towards him had changed because he was jealous. Paula had no

idea that in reality Jerry's boss was as tight with him as a brother, or

that he was a skinny meth-head with a sparse set of rotted teeth who had no

wife. So, with tears brimming in her own eyes because of her boyfriend's

horrible situation, and enraged at the boss's whore of a wife for trying to

fuck her lover, Paula came up with the brilliant idea of borrowing enough

money from her parents for Jerry to go independent and open up his own

construction company.

In 3 days Jerry had twenty-five thousand dollars cash in his pockets. He

had convinced Paula that he couldn't accept a check because he didn't want a

money trail just in case his Parole Officer questioned and broke his balls

about it. Paula understood and felt even more sorry for her man who had the

world against him. She daydreamed for weeks of how once Jerry became

successful, they could marry. She was sure her Father would pay for a

gigantic wedding, then finance the building of a new home as a wedding

present, which Jerry would do the work on himself, and get paid doing it.

But just a month later, Paula's dreams began turning into nightmares. The

first sign of disaster occurred when she couldn't find him for 2 days. She

had called his cell phone around noon like she did every day. He would

usually be eating his lunch while sitting on scaffolding at work. After

getting no answer and leaving 6 messages, she decided to leave her job at

her Uncle's jewelry store early to go looking for her fiance. Pulling up

in her Chrysler 300 to the job site where Jerry told her he'd been working,

she saw only one worker. He was a kid, about 18, and he was hauling old

cinder blocks into a dumpster. The company truck wasn't there, nor any other

sign of workers. She had gotten out of the car and asked the little dago

where Jerry and the other workers were. Carefully rehearsed, he gave an

academy award performance of the reason why Jerry nor anyone else was

around. With a low voice and wide-open frightened eyes, he told her that

Jerry had been kidnapped the night before by people he had trouble with

years ago. He said the family of a guy who Jerry had beaten and went to jail

for it, were taking their revenge out on Jerry after so many years had

passed. The kid convinced her that it was the South Philly way of doing

things, and anyone who intervened to try to help Jerry would be killed. With

her voice cracking and on the verge of a nervous breakdown, she had asked

where the boss was. The kid lowered his head and told her that the boss was

rounding up money wherever he could get it in an effort to pay the animals

off who had Jerry. She couldn't stand to hear anymore. Though dizzy and

feeling suddenly weak, she dashed to her car and screeched out of the

street.

Fifteen minutes later she found herself sitting in an office at her

bank. Her Father's friend, who also happened to be the bank manager, was

asking her for a third time why she wanted to withdraw ten-thousand dollars

from her account. Finding her voice, she explained that it was an emergency

for a loved-one, but that she wanted the affair to remain private. She

especially didn't want her parents to know anything, and why should they,

since it was her own money. The bank manager had her fill out a few forms,

and complied with her wishes. It wasn't until 24 hours later that she got to

see her Jerry. He had called her from his cell phone which she had given

to him as a present not long after they became a steady couple. She had

wanted to be able to contact him whenever she wanted. He knew it was a

tracking-system for her to always know his whereabouts, but went along

with it.

She answered her phone in tears, hysterically trying to get out of him

where he was and had been. Covering his mouth to stifle a mocking laugh, in

a low gravelly voice he told her he was on a bus coming to Philly from

Atlantic City. She could barely hear him as he told her that he didn't want

the other passengers to hear what had happened to him, and for her to pick

him up later that night because he had a few things to do to ensure his

safety. He was ecstatic to hear her say,

Don't worry baby, I got 10 grand for you to keep them animals away.

He couldn't believe his luck, so he asked her,

What?, to make sure he was hearing her correctly. A joyous Paula cried, "I

withdrew 10 thousand from the bank for you Jerry. I realized today that I

never want to lose you again. Please hurry up and do what you have to do so I

can see you."

Sitting behind the wheel of a year old Jaguar, and not some crowded

dirty bus, Jerry turned and glanced at an attractive woman in her

fifties who occupied the passenger seat of her car. She shook her head and

gave him a knowing grin. Smiling back at her he said into the telephone,

"Baby, you're the best. I'll call you to come and get me as soon as

possible. But don't go near my place until you hear from me, because I don't

want them fucking murderers near you."

All right baby, Paula had whimpered before they both hung up. Inside the

cab of the Jag Jerry's companion bent down and nibbled on his thigh. She

then raised her head to him and said,

You are one slimy motherfucker.

That night Paula submitted to every sexual position Jerry could think of. In

between the moaning and screaming by Paula, she would whimper at having her

man back in her arms. Jerry was turned off by it, but remembering the 10 G's

she had handed him earlier, he figured he could tolerate it. Their

relationship was back on track in the weeks that followed. Jerry had to use

his street-wise creative mind to explain away the ruse he'd conducted, and

to assure Paula that all was well and no more threats of harm would come to

him. He played the role perfectly of the victim who was beaten, tortured

and extorted out of the money Paula had given to him. And despite not having

a scratch on him, she believed him. He promised her he would work hard to

earn the money back. She showed genuine gratitude at just having him back

with her in one piece. It was exactly two weeks later that Paula was given

evidence of Jerry's true whereabouts with the rich 50 year old, and all of

the other acts of infidelity he had committed during their time together.

Afraid for his daughter's well-being, Hank Kesslar had hired a private-eye

friend of his to monitor Jerry Pizzo. It took the detective less than 72

hours to trace Jerry's criminal record, witness a drug transaction in North

Philly, and film him going into the Borgata Casino with an older, richly

adorned woman. What he couldn't film on his state of the art movie camera,

he used his cell phone camera to get the shots he needed to bury Jerry.

Watching her man on her Father's t.v. was just too much for Paula to take.

It was the last straw, as much as she knew it would probably kill her. Both

of her parents huddled around her and hugged her. She just sat there,

surrounded by opulence in her parents living-room, her face white and her

eyes red. Not responding verbally to them consoling her, she finally gushed

a stream of vomit that shot four feet in the air and splattered the television

screen. Watching her parents scurry around to clean up her mess, she

composed herself and walked to the bathroom. She then called the police.

Explaining in a low tearful voice to the police dispatcher that she had been

robbed by a parolee, she threw her cell phone across the tiled floor,

entered the bath tub, and slit her left wrist with a razor. With the water

running and still fully clothed, as the tub began turning red with her

blood, her father kicked in the door after Paula hadn't answered his calls

for her in the past ten minutes.

In the weeks that followed, Jerry was scooped up and brought to the

county jail. Deciding not to press charges because she knew Jerry still

had several years remaining on his parole, and he would definitely have to

serve them for his violations, Paula entered a drug rehab facility located

in Florida. Her father had arranged everything, and three weeks later she

found herself falling in love with a counselor at the clinic. Jerry

became a distant memory.

As for Jerry, three weeks after being arrested by his Parole Officer

and suffering the hours spent in the overcrowded county jail, he was shipped

back to Rockledge State Penitentiary, where he had served 5 years of his 5

to 10 year sentence. All of the free time spent on the street counted

towards his maximum of 10 years on his previous sentence, so he knew for the

remaining four-plus years his home would be The Rock.

It wasn't so bad in Jerry's immature mind. Even when the inmates still

incarcerated there mocked and belittled him for not being able to stay on

the street, Jerry just laughed and bragged about his exploits of "living

large by having 2 broads" who took care of him monetarily and sexually.

Most of the inmates, having the same underdeveloped mindset as Jerry laughed

at him and labeled him a bullshitter. But when Jerry showed them pictures of

him and Paula, which he had his friend mail him to the prison, the inmates

couldn't hide their envy. Some of the pictures were of Paula topless,

wearing only a thong in a variety of positions. But the photo of her

actually inserting a dildo inside of her really caused the inmates to go

berserk. They got wild-eyed, sickened looks on their faces, and some

couldn't wait to get back to their cells to masturbate. They even offered to

buy the pictures with packs of cigarettes, and they all reached a new level

of respect for Jerry. With this new title of Pimp Daddy, Jerry had no

worries at maxing out the remainder of his sentence.

Chapter                             Two

The clock-radio sounded at 6:00 A.M., resonating the saxophone of John

Coltrane. The horn weaved smoothly in and out of an improvisational duel

with Ron Carter's bass, as McCoy Tyner's piano accompanied them. John

Verita's eyes had opened 30 seconds before the alarm activated. It happened

that way just about every morning. It was his acute subconscious, or body

clock, that traversed ahead of the mechanical timepiece. He tried to live

his life the same way, steps ahead of everyone and everything in his

universe. He did feel a bit disoriented for a brief instant though, for he

was expecting a composition from Beethoven or Wagner on the radio.

From Monday to Thursday, Temple University's radio station, W.R.T.I., played

classical music. He mistakenly thought that it was Thursday, when in reality

it was Friday morning. The station's format was avant-garde jazz on Fridays.

Not that he didn't like jazz. Next to classical, jazz was his favorite

music. And he especially liked The Trane. His appreciation for his great

talent as well as the fact that he was a fellow Philadelphian held a special

place in Verita's heart. But probably more than anything, the fact that

Coltrane and Verita's wife each died at such a young age of cancer caused

Verita to cement the emotional bond which existed.

Rachel Verita was diagnosed with lung cancer at the age of forty-five.

John nor his wife had believed in modern medicine as far as the treatment

of cancer went. They had equally reasoned that the philosophy of destroying

cancer cells or tumors using radiation or chemotherapy was illogical,

unless the dreaded disease was in its final stage, and then only as a

last resort. They theorized that the affected body part should be built-up,

or restored to its former healthy state by using vitamins or other types

of nutrients, rather than be destroyed by poisonous means.

They had visited various medical centers in Mexico, Texas, and parts of

Europe, experimenting with holistic and other alternative treatments to

find a cure. But unfortunately, Rachel had succumbed to what Verita often

referred to as That filthy fucking disease. Though the illness had

nothing to do with hygiene or cleanliness, only people close to Verita

knew that it was his way of expressing his hatred and pain in the

derogatory way that he did.

As a Parole Officer for the state of Pennsylvania for the last thirty-three

years, and a native of one of the toughest neighborhoods in South

Philadelphia, there were many occasions when he would use the same epithet

when involved in quarrels. He was known by all to hate child molestors, so

he almost always referred to them as Those filthy fucking baby-rapers. And

about wife-beaters he would say, Those filthy fucking cowards.

At 56 years old, those who had ever had any contact with him in his lifetime

remembered him. And each of them felt one of two ways about him; they either

loved him or hated him. His dominant personality wouldn't have it any other

way. There was no in-between with him. In his world compromise and

contradictions did not exist. He had always been a voracious reader, which

obviously had a lot to do with him being a knowledgeable man. But more

importantly in John's mind was to be an honorable and just human being. He

would often respond to his friends whenever they would compliment him on his

intelligence, that he valued truth and loyalty more than anything some

writer had to say. And as opinionated as he was, he never embarrassed or

belittled any of his true friends because of their lack of education. He

would correct them as subtly and modestly as possible. But when he would

argue points with people he didn't care for, he would pulverize any premise

or theory they might have regarding a particular subject.

Most of his historic confrontations occurred when he was a younger man

hanging out at the neighborhood bars in South Philly. He was notorious for

having a wicked tongue amongst those he argued with, and also with those

who were too intimidated by him to even attempt to have a conversation. And

in his teen years he had an even more wicked right-hook, whenever a verbal

sparring escalated into a physical one. He never threw the first punch, but

almost always ended the fight with his last punch. Yet he was approachable,

and even good-natured. He just held and guarded his convictions as if his

life depended on it. Whether it was about sports, politics, religion or the

economy, John Verita used his arsenal of logic, reason, rationale and

objectivity to the fullest.

Leaning over to shut off the radio, he swung out of bed to prepare for this

last day of the week at the Parole Office. Fridays were usually slow-paced

as far as his workload was concerned. It was the Board's policy to use

Fridays as new meat days, meant for the P.O.'s to receive new parolees who

had just been released from state prison. He thought the term new meat as

distasteful and never used it. Normally only four or five new clients would

be acquired on such days, and he enjoyed getting first impressions of the

men and women. It was important to him that he survey and absorb as much

information as possible from these fresh, New To The World ex-cons. And it

was equally important that he convey to them that no matter what their past

criminal history was, this was their opportunity to begin a new chapter

in their lives. He often made the analogy to them that their lives from here

on out were like a blank canvas, and that they held the artist's brush. He

knew the difficulties involved in making a smooth transition from their

steel and concrete cells to the steel and concrete jungle of Philadelphia.

What he couldn't know that morning as he looked at his reflection in the

bathroom mirror as he shaved, was that on this day he would be meeting the

most pitiful, yet potentially dangerous man he'd ever met in his life.

Chapter                             Three

Back in Rockledge, it didn't take Jerry long to fall back into the same

monotonous jail routine. Even though Paula didn't press charges against him,

he had violated his parole by having drugs in his system and paraphernalia

found at his apartment. He wasn't formally charged with any crimes, but he

would have to remain in prison at least 6 months before his case would come

up before the Parole Board. The remaining large cache of drugs which Jerry

hadn't been able to sell was collected by his friend Dukey, the contractor

who he had worked for. Various amounts were hidden in several vacant

buildings which Dukey had contracts to work on. Dukey knew to sell whatever

was left of the weed and meth. Although he feared Jerry and knew there'd be

consequences, he couldn't help but tap into the meth every once in a while.

He'd then cut the remaining speed with baby laxative to make up for what

he'd taken. All the money it brought in was to be incrementally shipped to

Jerry via money orders. They had also preplanned to put some money aside for

Jerry for when he would be released from the joint. He would need

pocket-change and possibly a new apartment if Dukey didn't have a place

available for him.

So all Jerry could really do now was wait for the date of his parole hearing.

Until then it was up at 6:00 in the morning. Count time at 7:00. Breakfast

at 8:00. To the gym or yard at 9:00 to lift weights. (Or for many inmates,

work in the various trade gangs as painters, carpenters, plumbers,

electricians or food-servers.) But Jerry thought too highly of himself to

take a job in jail. They only paid 22 cents an hour, and with the money

Dukey was sending, who needed to work? Plus he enjoyed watching television

in his cell when he didn't feel like going to the gym or yard. After all, he

was paying the prison 15 dollars a month for cable t.v., so why not take

advantage of it. For many inmates, soap operas were the most watched shows

in jail. The reason was the large cast of women which the inmates starved

and craved for. The next most watched were the music video channels...and

not just for the music, but again for the sexy women. On any given

afternoon, Jerry, along with the other convicts could be heard throughout

the cellblock hooting and howling about the women's body parts and what they

wanted to do to them.

About 6 weeks into his return stay, Jerry began to get antsy. He was

surprised at himself for experiencing this alien feeling of not belonging

in jail. It was in the afternoon and his cellmate was at work, when while

laying in his bunk he began to feel uneasy. The thought of Paula had crept

into his mind occasionally since being re-incarcerated, but he was

institutionalized enough to know how to block out thoughts of the streets.

Some guys lost their minds and souls trying to cope with the loss of their

loved ones and freedoms in general while in the joint. They just could not

adjust to the existence of living like a sub-human being. But Jerry

consciously thought that because he'd been in and out of jail since his

childhood and knew all the trappings involved, he shouldn't be having such

negative vibes. After all, Dukey was watching his money outside, and he

always had enough dough on the books to go to the commissary each week. He

glanced at the gun-metal gray shelf above his bunk, inventorying boxes of

cakes, bags of potato chips, cigarettes and coffee. Then he turned to the

smaller shelf above the sink. There sat boxes of hand soap, toothpaste,

shampoo, disposable razors and a tube of shaving cream. He shook his head

and frowned curiously that he wanted for nothing...that is, if one

considered only the basic needs of a jailbird. He was about to get off the

bunk to do push-ups, knowing it would distract him from the ill feelings he

was having. But something inside him said,

No, think and deal with it.

He scooted back in his bunk and accidentally banged his head on the cinder

block wall.

Shit, he said aloud.

Then he shook his head, smiling wryly and wondered what the hell

could be making him feel this way? Again, he knew how to deal with boredom

in the joint. But this was different. He had a hunger, he thought. Or was it

a big empty hole in his life? A void. He closed his eyes and thought,

‘This can't be a panic attack. Not me.’

Then, ‘Maybe I'm just anxious. But why now?’

He looked down at his watch. In 10 more minutes the cell doors would open

and the inmates would be allowed to go on the block. Some would play cards

or chess. Others would use the time to take a shower or use the pay-phone

near the guards' station. When his door clicked open Jerry marched straight

to the guard station and asked for a form to fill out to make an appointment

with his counselor, Mr. Cozak. An idea was taking shape inside him which he

felt he had no control over. The more he thought about it the more excited

he got.

Two days later he found himself inside his counselor's office in the

Prison Administration Building. He was all too familiar with his dispassionate

counselor since he had been assigned to him for the 5 year stretch he had

previously served. Mr. Cozak greeted him with a Now what do you want Pizzo?

But Jerry surprised him when he said, I want to take some college courses.

Mister Cozak, the forever pessimistic prison employee  couldn't mask his shock.

He actually paused for a good 20 seconds, staring at the wall behind Jerry,

afraid of what might come out of his mouth. Finally he said,

What kind of courses are you interested in?

He then fumbled with Jerry's file and turned its pages.

He didn't give Jerry a chance to respond because he then said,

"I noticed you completed your G.E.D. 3 years ago, so you're eligible for

almost any course you want."

Jerry, with the most serious, intent look on his face, which Mister Cozak had

never before witnessed said,

I want to take a Criminal Justice Course.

Chapter                             Four

John Verita left his home for work at 7:30. The April morning, (according

to the radio weatherman) had the promise of a beautiful spring day ahead.

Closing and locking his front door, he looked up and was pleased to see the

cotton-like puffy clouds gliding slowly from the west through the high blue

sky. He immediately thought of baseball, and looked forward to reading the

sports page to see when the Phillies' next game would be. It was his favorite

sport, and like all die-hard Philly sports fans, he hoped The Phils would

have a successful year.

Looking side to side down the block of his street, he sniffed the air as

a dog would. No sweet smell of the freshly cut grass of a baseball diamond,

he thought with a rye smile. Only the exhaust fumes from cars, the sour odor

from the fish store's dumpster across the street, and the stinging assault

of urine from the drunks who used the front steps of homes on his block to

relieve themselves attacked his nostrils.

At five-feet, eleven inches tall, and weighing one-hundred eighty pounds, Verita

was in better than average shape for a fifty-six year old man. He took a daily dose

of multiple vitamins and ate wisely. His sole means of exercise was walking. He

didn't own a car, nor did he care for driving. He walked everywhere. Many times,

the highlight of his day would be his trek to work. He lived just under three miles

from the State Building where his office was, and unless there was a blizzard

or rain-storm outside, he would walk to work. It would normally take him about

forty-five minutes, depending on the number of times he would stop to talk with

neighbors, friends and even strangers along the way. Tourists would often approach

him and ask for directions to the various museums and historical sites in the

City of Brotherly Love. His officious, yet warm appearance was welcoming to the

sightseers, and once he got started on the subject of the numerous landmarks and

attractions which the city offered, he would get lost in his proud historical

knowledge of the Birthplace of Liberty.

He began his walk westward towards Broad Street, which was only a block

away from his house. His gait was effortless as he nodded to neighbors along

the way, fighting the urge to buy a pack of cigarettes. He had quit smoking

once again for the last four months, and he knew that if he picked up his pace

in his walk, his heart-rate would quicken, and the temptation for a smoke would

subside. Reaching Broad Street, he stopped at the corner news-stand and bought

The Philadelphia Inquirer newspaper. His eyes averted from the rows of

cigarettes lined just above the window of the stand. Smiling at the Hindu Indian

proprietor, he paid him and turned right to stride the straight stretch of

pavement north along Broad Street.

Verita wore a suit-jacket and tie every day to work although it wasn't required.

In fact, most of his co-workers wore crew-neck pullovers, or golf shirts.

If it was mandatory that he wear a suit and tie, he probably wouldn't have. One of

the words he hated most in the English language was Mandated. He felt

that as an American, only the laws of The Constitution applied to all citizens,

and not a day went by that he wasn't involved in a conversation or argument

debating the subject. He felt that most Americans were asleep, or unaware of

their rights. He would have fit right in with the forefathers of his great

country. To him, wearing a suit and tie was appropriate for his occupation.

He felt that as an officer of the law, he should look as professional as

possible to represent what he stood for. In his case it seemed to be the

correct choice, because of all the Parole Officers in the department, he

had the lowest rate of recidivism by his clients.

During his travel he would occasionally glimpse the newspaper headlines

to see what would be interesting to read on his lunch break. He'd routinely

look at the last page of the paper first, which was the Sports section.

Every so often amidst the street noise he'd hear a greeting from a friend

or associate along the way. The rumble of the subway reverberated under

his feet and the bus fumes constantly reminded him that he made the right

choice in quitting smoking. The headline on page 2 of the paper caught

his eye. SERIAL RAPIST/MURDERER CLAIMS FOURTH VICTIM. An uneasiness

grasped his stomach. He was aware of the previous attacks and murders

and was as eager as the rest of the public for the police to find

this monster. He thought better to close the paper and read the entire

article when he had the time. One shouldn't be walking the streets

of center city Philadelphia preoccupied without being fully conscious

of the surroundings.

About twenty minutes into his walk he crossed through the City Hall

courtyard. He recognized and acknowledged some of the attorneys, Judges

and Court Officers he passed as they headed to their destinations inside

City Hall. He was all too familiar with the building, having to appear

at least twice a week to either fight for or against clients of his.

The courtyard was shaded by the building, and the cool chill felt good to

him. Usually it was at this point in his commute that he would break a sweat.

It held true this morning, and as he exited the courtyard, he removed his

jacket and carried it folded onto his arm. The sight of the State Building

was now apparent on his left, telling him he had about a mile more to go.

The thirty-story building looked decayed and dirty, even at this distance.

It rose straight into the sky, and to Verita, had a Socialistic architectural

shape to it. Along with the Parole Board, it housed other various departments,

including the utilities for gas, water and electricity. His least favorite

of all was The Pennsylvania Tax and Revenue Department.

For the last six years, Verita had been fighting the Internal Revenue

Service as well as the Pennsylvania Tax and Revenue Department. He hated

them with a passion and had hired an innumerable amount of lawyers to

fight them in court. At the current moment, he was still doing battle

with them. They had garnished his wages, and had levied fines against

him for failing to pay back taxes. He swore to the death that he would

never capitulate to them.

Verita had inherited a chain of laundromats from his father when

John Senior had passed away. John Janutz Verita Senior was involved

in the rackets ever since John Junior could remember. Verita's father

started out running numbers for the Jewish Mob on the docks of the

Delaware River back in the 1950's. He then graduated to bookmaking

and loansharking, and was connecting with some of the most powerful

men in the Jewish Mafia nationwide at the time. There were even rumors

that he was involved in a few murders. His father always gave him

money without John ever asking for any. He would pull a hundred dollar

bill from his vest pocket and hand it to Verita saying, "Here, take

your friends to a ballgame or something." Over the years, money became

less important to Verita, because he always had it as a kid. But when

the I.R.S. began investigating his income from the laundromats, it was

the first time in his life that he experienced what it was like to do

without something he'd been so used to. To add to the misery and anger

which Verita was experiencing at the time, his wife Rachel was fighting

her final battles with cancer. Those who knew him and were aware of what

he was going through felt so sorry for him that they equated him with

the bible character Job. His medical coverage was depleted, and he went

into debt borrowing money to journey with his wife in search of a cure.

It was then that he really got obsessed with the history of America,

and he was inspired by the founding-fathers' fight against tyranny

and the extortion of its citizens by taxation.

Entering the State Building, Verita approached the uniformed guard at the

desk. They each voiced their good mornings as Verita signed a log book. He

then walked to the bank of 6 elevators and entered one. Riding to the

fifteenth floor he was sweating from the walk, but smiled inside that his

breathing was slow and normal. He stepped off the elevator and strode past 4

rows of wooden benches where various parolees sat waiting to meet with their

respective Parole Officers. He glanced at some of the men and women and gave

a universal Good morning. Most of them responded in kind. Right before he

walked through the metal-detector which stood just in front of the main

office door, he experienced a feeling of vertigo. He stopped walking and

stood still. He felt like a leaden beam or force was probing his body on the

left side. It was more of a mental sensation than a physical one. He turned

in the direction of the energy, and sitting alone on a bench was a man with

a shaved head looking at him. Verita felt a chill down his back as a line of

sweat formed and flowed to his lower spine. The man's features didn't seem

ominous or offensive, but Verita's mind jolted to defense mode just the

same. It was a reflex that he couldn't comprehend or make sense of. After

looking at the man for only a few seconds, but what felt like a much longer

time, Verita pivoted and entered the office to begin his workday.

Chapter                             Five

In Pennsylvania, Parole Officers are usually assigned no longer than 6 months to

monitor their clients. Then they rotate. The Board's atypical policy is a

preventative measure to discourage P.O.'S and clients from forming a "too

friendly" relationship. There had been corruption cases over the years when

parolees would pay off their P.O.'s to look the other way should they have a

dirty urine, or a number of other various minor offenses which would otherwise

warrant them being violated, or charged by the Parole Officer, which

could consequently send them back to jail.

In one such instance, a major drug dealer had his P.O. on his payroll, just

as some criminals keep a lawyer on a retainer. He paid the officer in cash

amounts which sometimes exceeded his salary from the state. Not only was the

P.O. turning a blind eye to hot urines or petty misdemeanors by the drug

dealer, but he was also ordered to search the Board's computer database to

find out which friends or foes of the dealer might be coming up for parole.

The dealer wanted to have a handle on every aspect of his operation. It was

when one of the dealer's competitors was assassinated just a day after being

released from prison, and just outside the State Building that the payola

scandel was exposed.

A confidential informant had contacted the District Attorneys Office with

eyes on evidence about the drug dealer and the Parole Officer's

relationship. Threatened with conspiracy to commit murder and multiple other

charges, the Parole Officer pled guilty and turned states evidence against

his client. He was sentenced to only House Arrest and the loss of his job.

He would be able, however, to collect a pension. But the officer never got a

chance to spend one penny of his pension check, let alone cash it, for

although the drug dealer was found guilty of plotting the murder of his

competitor and sentenced to 15 to 30 years in prison, he took revenge

against the snitch P.O. by having one of his crew members blow the face off

the officer when he had answered the knock on his door by a phony pizza

deliveryman. But instead of pizza being housed in the box, it was a

sawed-off shotgun. The culprit was never apprehended. It was then that

strict new policies were implemented by the Board of Parole.

John Verita, over the years, had been offered tens of thousands of dollars

in bribes by parolees. But he was untouchable. He never took a nickel

because he knew that once you accepted money, or the smallest favor from

anyone, you were poisoned for life. The South Philly Mob, after countless

times of trying to grease Verita's palm, had given up on him. Yet, they

respected him more for it. In turn, Verita never played the role of cop

with them. He was a Parole Officer, but a Man of Integrity first. He never

reported any mob guys who he knew, and sometimes even witnessed them

committing crimes. There was no way he would interfere with guys taking

numbers or bookmaking. They were harmless vices to him. Plus, he had grown

up with most of them, and was blood related to some. But whenever he knew

someone to be dealing drugs, he'd let them know that he knew what they

were doing and didn't approve of it. That didn't mean he was going to turn

them in to the police. It did mean that they were to take their business

elsewhere, and far from his neighborhood.

Verita had just finished interviewing his third new client when he

decided to break for lunch. He was feeling a little frustrated by the

interviews, because each new parolee had done jail time as a result

of drugs. Whether it was directly, as in dealing, or indirectly as in

using and committing a crime while intoxicated; he was beginning to

feel overwhelmed (once again in his career) by the helplessness of

trying to fight a war on drugs. It had become more than disheartening

to him for the last 10 to 15 years how the government, (Federal, State,

City), had taken such an irrational Nazi stance on the issue of drugs.

It had been an evolution in learning for him since his teen years

about the effects of abusing drugs or alcohol. He had witnessed countless

friends, family, neighbors and coworkers lose their health, wealth, dignity,

souls, and many times, their lives to this scourge.

Even prior to his teen years he had experienced drinking beer with

his buddies in the playground hangout in his neighborhood. Mostly on Friday

nights he and his friends would follow in the footsteps of the older

neighborhood guys who did the same thing in their youth. They'd pay a

neighborhood rummy a dollar to buy quarts of beer for them at the corner

bar. After getting bombed, they'd look for neighborhood girls to make out

with, or more if they were lucky. On the nights when the girls weren't

available, they'd venture into center city looking for a hooker. They would

have to pool their money with hopes that some desperate whore would do them

all for whatever amount of money they could come up with. Most of the time

they were unsuccessful. Either because they didn't have enough money, or too

many cops were around and knew their game. They'd chase them and warn them

to stay out of center city with threats of jail. And sometimes they would

lock them up for the night, just to let the kids sleep it off. They would

then telephone their parents telling them to come and pick up their juvenile

delinquent children. But after a few times of being locked up, the kids got

around that policy by telling the cops that they didn't have a phone at

home. Usually one of the kid's parents would show up at the station and sign

their name for the release of all the kids. Verita and his friends got so

used to spending 4 or 5 hours in a cell on a Friday night that at least one

of them would carry a deck of cards around with him so they wouldn't be

bored while at the district jail.

He was only 16 years old when he and 3 of his buddies caught a dose of

Chlamydia. As much as it burned just to take a piss, and the shame involved

in going to the doctor for it, it was almost a badge of honor, a rite of

passage, to catch a sexually transmitted disease back then. To the youth of

the neighborhood, catching The Clap meant that they had graduated or

taken one of the many storied steps on their way to manhood. But for

Verita it was one of the most memorable, meaningful and miserable events in

his life.

Hearing of his son's shenanigans, John Verita senior confronted him about

it. They had a relationship in which they only spoke to each other when one

had something significant to say. Not that they didn't love one another. On

the contrary. Verita senior loved his son more than anyone else on earth,

including his wife, Verita's mother. It's just that his quiet, serious

personality limited him showing affection to his son. They did share some

interests, such as sports and gambling. Ever since Verita junior could

remember, his father was taking bets from neighborhood guys on horse racing,

football, baseball, basketball and boxing. The father would take him to

sporting events and always have the best seats in the stadium. Many times

he'd give his son tickets for a full row of seats at Connie Mack Stadium so

he could bring all his friends with him. That happened mostly for Sunday

double-header games. The reason being that Verita senior, after spending the

morning on the telephone to take bets for all the games; he would enjoy

being at home with his wife the remainder of the afternoon and early

evening. It was the only day of the week that the couple could have the time

and privacy to either make love, watch television, or converse about their

experiences each had during the past week.

From the neighborhood grapevine, Verita's mother was horrified to

hear that her son had gotten a disease from a puttana. Normally when he'd

gotten in trouble, his mother would handle the problem without telling

Verita senior about it. But this was different. This had to be resolved

between a father and his son. And she sure didn't appreciate the cut-smile

which her husband failed to hide in hearing of his son's antics.

"You think it's funny him sleeping with a diseased whore? Are you out of your

mind?  You better talk to him and bring him to the doctor yourself. I'm

embarrassed enough that the whole goddamned neighborhood knows about it."

Naturally, as a result of his wife's rage, Verita senior was denied any

amorous activity for the next two Sundays. That in itself was bad enough,

but the real pain was the silent treatment and murderous looks his wife

had given him while in each others company. He had to have a sit down

with his crazy kid.

It was on a summer Saturday morning that John junior awoke and heard

his parents talking downstairs. They weren't yelling, but he was surprised

that his father was home at this time of day, because he'd normally be

working. Saturday was a big day for gamblers. Either for sports betting

or playing the numbers, most people got paid on Friday, the day before,

so they were all chomping at the bit to place their bets with the pockets

full of money they had.

When he walked into the kitchen he tried to read his mother and father's

faces to interpret what was going on. He knew they'd been angry the past

couple of days by the coldness which lingered like a fog throughout the

house. But he didn't know the reason. It could have been anything. Every

kid's parents argued about something or other. But as soon as he said to his

father, Hey Dad...how come you're home?, the look his father gave him told

him the whole story. He was the reason they were at war. His father's

response confirmed it.

Eat and get dressed. We're gonna take a ride.

Twenty minutes later they were driving towards center city. The year old

Lincoln Town Car hummed slightly over the voice of Sinatra on the radio

singing High Hopes. The windows were down allowing a comfortable warm breeze

to flow through the car. They didn't speak for several minutes until the

car passed Washington Avenue. They were heading north. A tightness

clenched Verita junior's stomach. He knew this couldn't end up good.

The only time he ever traveled north in the city (besides looking for

hookers with his friends) was to attend a Phillies game at Connie Mack

Stadium. But that was either by riding the subway train and then transferring to

a bus, or driving with his dad...but not using this route.

Plus, the Phillies were playing in Pittsburgh the whole weekend,

so that wasn't it. The nervous fear in him forced him to speak.

You're not workin' today Dad?

His father glanced at him briefly and felt a warm sorrow in his own

belly for his son. The pale anguish in his son's face was pitiful.

But knowing he had to follow through on his plan, he mildly said,

"Nah. Asa has a new kid he wants to break in with the numbers.

So I told him to collect from my people today."

Asa was Verita senior's boss. He was a high ranking member in the Jewish

mob, and they had been friends since they were children. Verita junior liked

Asa. He was a short, bull of a man who always had a smile on his face. He

never showed up at their house without bringing a strawberry shortcake for

Angie Verita, senior's wife, and lox and bagel's with cream cheese for

junior. It was rumored in the neighborhood that he was a millionaire twice

over. But by his appearance those who didn't know him would ever think

that. He was always clean shaven and had his hair cut monthly by his wife of

40 years. His clothes were fashioned from a past era, although they

were cleaned and pressed daily, also by his wife. He wore dark pants and a

white buttoned shirt just about every day. The only time he wore a tie was

to attend a wedding, funeral or court. His car was 10 years old and as

unassuming as he was. He carried an antique pocket watch, handed down to him

by his father who had emigrated to America from Russia before the turn of the

century.  The detailed engraving on the timepiece beautifully depicted a czar

riding a horse and pointing a saber sword.

Verita senior turned onto Race street. They would be entering Chinatown a

few blocks ahead. Junior had been somewhat relieved when they'd crossed South

street and then eventually Market, because that's where the prostitutes did

their business. The fleeting thought arose in him that whatever trouble he

was in had nothing to do with being with whores. His confidence grew when

while passing the numerous Chinese restaurants senior said,

Nine-seventeen.

917 was the name of their favorite Chinese restaurant. It was the address of

the building also. The three large numbers were displayed 10 feet tall on

the building's facade. They were cherry blossom red with gold trim. It

wasn't just the food that appealed to the Verita family. About 5 years

before, Verita senior had played the number 917 on the street lottery. He

had placed the bet with an Italian number writer and competitor in his

neighborhood. He put $10.00 straight on the three digits. Unlike the state

lottery, which only paid 500 dollars on a dollar straight bet, the illegal

street lottery paid 700 bucks on a dollar bet. That afternoon, when the

number was announced by wire throughout the underworld, Verita senior could

hardly contain himself.  Not that seven-thousand dollars meant the world to

him, but more because of the smiles it would put on his family's faces.

That evening when Verita senior entered his home, he saw his wife in the

dining-room setting plates. She turned and smiled saying, You're early. It

was more of a question. He stood still at the vestibule and then glanced at

his son who was watching television. Verita junior acknowledged him with a

smile and Hey Dad, then went back to watching t.v. Senior smiled to

himself. He began to walk towards his wife, and with each pace, he took

fistfuls of money from his pockets and dropped them on the floor. Angie

Verita's head snapped to him, hearing the wispy sound of the money hitting

the carpet. John junior's eyes popped. Both Mother and Son tried to speak

but nothing could come out. The trail of old twenties and ten-dollar bills

littered the floor all the way to the kitchen as senior continued strolling

and dropping money as he walked, silent every step of the way. Then,

instantaneously mother and son knew what had happened. He'd done it before

when he'd won at the racetrack or playing cards. But they had never seen

this much money. Angie Verita squealed, Ahh, and dropped the dishes for a

mad dash to the money. John junior yelled, Whaaaaaa, and leaped from the

couch to collect what he could. It resembled a chaotic Easter egg hunt. The

game was to gather as much as each could to see who came up with the most

amount of money. It was all in fun-loving excitement though, because at the

end they would both put the money in the center of the dining-room table to

wait to hear the details from senior on how he won this cash. Mother and son

would sit quietly with adoration towards senior as he explained hitting the

number, and that the reason he played that particular number was because of

the Chinese restaurant which they all loved. Passing the restaurant junior

said, Wow, what a day that was, remembering the celebration of their good

fortune. Do you still play nine-seventeen Dad?

Once in awhile. But it hasn't come out straight like that since, he replied.

Crossing 8th street, a large parking lot was full with vehicles on the left.

The lot was for the Police Administration Building. It was known as "The

Round House", because of its shape. Unfamiliar to the area, junior didn't

notice it, and senior didn't want to upset his son by drawing his attention

to it. He felt that his plan for the day would be sufficient enough in

conveying what needed to be taught to his boy.

Approaching 7th street, Verita senior nodded his head to the right,

directing his son to look that way. The intersection of 7th and Race Street

was known as Skid Row. On the corner were about 15 men and women. Their

races varied, but the wrinkled clothes, disheveled hair and degrees in which

they either staggered, wobbled or laid on the ground said everything there

was to say about their station in life. They were the forgotten lost souls

who came from every walk of life. Some of their stories would rival those of

the bible. Junior was a bit startled as his father said, "You see them

people. Don't ever judge them. Just because they're dirty and boozers, it

doesn't mean they were always that way." Junior swung his head back and

forth looking at his father and then the group. His father continued. "I

knew a guy from our neighborhood. I went to school with him when we were

kids. He was a smart kid. A great basketball player. Got a scholarship to

college and was gonna be an architect. He met a beautiful girl from the

mainline. Senior paused noticing the question in his son's eyes. The

mainline is a rich area just outside of Philly. Anyway, she was going to

college in hopes of becoming a doctor. One night she was driving down to

pick up Marty. He lived around 9th and Mifflin. His people didn't have

money, so he had no car. As she was driving on the expressway, a carload of

kids were hassling her. They had stolen the car they were in. The kid

driving would come as close as possible to her car as the other kids were

yelling shit to her...you know, like, 'Hey baby, what's your name'. What's

your phone number?' Stuff like that.

Junior was mesmerized listening to his father. It was rare that his father

spoke at length about any subject. He hung on every word.

"So the girl's tryin' to keep her eyes on the road but it's hard because

the other car keeps coming close enough to swipe her. The next thing you

know, the kid hits a pothole just as he's veering towards her. He was

going so fast that the car actually lifted off the blacktop. He rammed

her. She lost control and crashed. She plowed right through a guardrail

and down an embankment. She died on the spot."

Verita junior's mouth was dry and his eyes watered. He had a million

questions but his mind couldn't form them into words. His father sensed

his discomfort and thought to continue the story as quickly as possible

and be done with it.

"Anyway, from that day on Marty lost his mind. He cried like a baby

at the funeral. I never saw a grown man cry like that before. All the

guys in the neighborhood tried to console him but it was no use.

He started drinking. And I don't mean quarts of beer like you and

your numbskull friends. He started with a 1/2 pint of vodka a day.

Then it was a pint. Then he started taking pills with the vodka.

He just couldn't sleep or shake off the grief. They sent him to

psychiatrists, had him committed to hospitals and I don't know how many

rehabs. But nothing helped him get back to normal. He winded up down here

on the skids. I guess it was about four or five years later they

found him dead. They found him in a park a couple blocks from here."

Verita senior stopped talking to better concentrate on his driving.

He was coming to an entrance to I-95. Junior, pretty shaken from the

story turned away from his father and looked out the window. The emotions

of sadness for his father's friend, fear in the message his father was

translating to him, as well as love for his dad's concerns overwhelmed

him. He quickly wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve. Then he noticed

that they were on I-95. The confusion as well as the frog which felt

like was in his throat prevented him from saying anything. Thinking

his son had regained his composure senior said, "So that's why I say not to

judge people by their looks. Because poor Marty never hurt a soul

even when his world collapsed around him."

Once again on this journey with his father junior started feeling

anxious when noticing that they were on I-95. But he didn't want to ask

their destination. The fear was paralyzing. But he had to say something.

Did they ever catch the kids...? His father squinted a question at him.

Then he realized what he meant. "Oh, the one's in the stolen car. Yeah, they

caught them. They were all rich kids from the area where the crash was. They

were raised spoiled rotten...punks. They couldn't help from bragging to their

girlfriends about what happened. Then the first argument one of them has

with their girl, she calls the cops and dimes them all out. They were all

under 18 so they did a couple years in the Youth Study Center."

Senior let that last statement linger between them for a brief moment. Then

he asked, You know what that is? John junior barely croaked, Yeah. His

father guessed of the horror stories his son and his buddies had probably

heard about the Youth Study Center. It was infamous for the violence

attached to it from the media, and senior guessed, from the street gossip

which he was sure his son had experienced. But he couldn't pass up this

opened window of opportunity to convey to his son the value in the story. He

said, "So because a crew of four asshole kids who had no reason doing what

they were doing... look how many lives were ruined. Marty's girl dies. A

beautiful girl only 24 years old. The four punks do two years time for

taking a life. And God knows what hell