Framed!: I Never Stood a Chance

By Joseph Occhipinti

Joseph Occhipinti is a native New Yorker where his desire to be involved in community service led him to a career in law enforcement. He graduated from Brooklyn College where he earned a BA degree.

In January 1969, Joe joined the U.S. Army Reserves, where for six years he served as a Military Policeman. In March 1972, Joe was appointed as a Customs Patrol Officer where he was assigned to investigate international smuggling and organized crime.

In 1976, Joe transferred to the INS as a Special Agent where he became one of the country’s foremost experts on ethnic organized crime. Joe worked deep undercover and infiltrated a drug cartel that led to one of the largest cocaine seizures at that time. In 1984, Joe became the youngest agent to be promoted to Chief of the NYC Anti-Smuggling Unit.

In 1989, Joe initiated a multi-agency task force “Project Bodega” to investigate a drug cartel implicated in the murder of a NYPD officer. In retaliation, the cartel set-up Joe on fabricated civil rights allegations that led to his prosecution, conviction and imprisonment. However, due to public outrage, President George H.W. Bush granted Joe “Executive Clemency” on January 15, 1993 and on December 23, 2020, President Donald J. Trump granted him a “Full and Unconditional Pardon” with a personal apology for Joe’s injustice.

In 1995, Joe established the National Police Defense Foundation, where he still volunteers as its Executive Director. Joe has been instrumental in exposing through national media many injustices against officers. He also established the congressionally recognized “Safe Cop” program that helps arrest and convict criminals who shoot at or kill an officer.

Joe’s notoriety as a humanitarian is attributed to his “Operation Kids” program which arranges life-saving operations for children worldwide. Joe has been recognized for these efforts by the media, elected officials, state legislatures and foreign governments, including Pope Francis.

Joe served on the executive board of several fraternal police organizations which included the Federal Agents PBA as President for 18 years. Today, Joe is considered one of the most decorated federal agents in the United States, credited with 3 Attorney General Awards and 78 commendations for meritorious service and valor.

Joe resides in New Jersey with his wife, Angela of 50 years, 3 married daughters and 6 grandchildren.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781638745488

Book preview

1

A Short Trip from Brooklyn to US Customs

I would not be the person I am today had I not grown up in New York. One of the greatest experiences in my lifetime was growing up in Brooklyn. It gave me the background, street smarts, and determination to succeed in a law-enforcement career.

I was born in the early 1950s and lived in a tenement apartment in the lower east side of Manhattan. My parents were second-generation Italian-Americans whose family immigrated from Sicily. My father, John, was a civil service examiner who also worked part-time at Macy’s. My mother Theresa, a school crossing guard for the New York City Police Department (NYPD), helped my father support the family that included my older sister of two years, Janet.

My interest in law enforcement began as a small child when my mother would often take me to the Fifth Precinct in Manhattan on payday. The local cops treated me like royalty, and it was at that time that I was inspired to become an NYPD police officer.

In 1955, the city gave my father an eviction notice since our apartment building would be demolished and replaced by low-income city projects. He had to move the family elsewhere, and my parents opted to move to the Sheepshead Bay Projects in Brooklyn, where I lived until the day I got married in 1972.

During my childhood, my parents taught me that in life, you must work hard if you really want to advance in this world. They may have laid it on me a bit too heavy because I became a workaholic in whatever venture I pursued. I remember being about seven years old, tirelessly working to buy things that my parents could not otherwise afford. When I was nine, I shined shoes at the Avenue U train station where I would earn about ten dollars a day. It embarrassed my mother, but I earned candy and soda money so I would not have to bother my parents for my unnecessary pleasures.

At age ten, the owner of a local luncheonette called Handfingers allowed me to deliver food to local stores on the avenue. I earned twenty dollars a day with most of the money consisting of tips from nice old women who spent hours at the beauty parlor. Eventually, Handfingers allowed me to work behind the counter where I made outstanding beverages such as Egg Creams and Lime Rickys. To aficionados, Handfingers’s Egg Creams were the best on the planet, and I took great pride in creating these masterpieces.

My father’s job included performing background checks on postal employees. So when I was ten years old, he arranged for an FBI special agent to give me a private tour of the FBI office. That experience had such a profound impact on me and reinforced my interest in a career in law enforcement.

At age thirteen, my love for music surfaced. I always tapped along with the music of the fifties and early sixties and dreamed of being a famous drummer like Gene Krupa. I didn’t have the money to pay for music lessons or buy a drum set. So I worked a second job as a pizza man at Rocky’s Pizzeria, which enabled me to make monthly payments on a Slingerland drum set.

At age fourteen, I was a drummer with several rock ’n’ roll bands that played at area church dances, swim clubs and social events. For about five years, I committed to be the best drummer around and played at several clubs in Brooklyn, Staten Island, and Manhattan, which included the famous Electric Circus in Greenwich Village.

Madison High School, which was one of the ten best high schools in NYC, was forty-five minutes from where I lived and became my choice for high school. They offered an expanded language department that included Italian. I convinced my parents to allow me to attend Madison, even though I had to get up at six in the morning and take two buses to school.

After school, I found a part-time job at Orbach’s Department Store in Manhattan. I worked in the boy’s department where I used my Italian and Spanish almost every day dealing with foreign tourists who were shopping in the store.

In 1968, as a high school senior, I decided to take part in a new NYPD initiative named the Police Trainee program. The program permitted a candidate at the age of eighteen to take the police test, undergo the required background checks, and take the medical and physical examinations. The police trainee was then assigned to an administrative position within the NYPD, and at the age of twenty-one, would then be sworn in as a police officer.

I took the examination in 1968 and scored very high. Several months later, I was given a physical endurance test and passed with flying colors. The final step was to pass the physical examination, which at the time required that all applicants be five feet, seven inches tall without shoes. I became panic-stricken realizing I was about five feet, six inches tall. A few of my friends suggested that I go to a chiropractor who might be able to stretch me the additional inch. I agreed immediately, willing to accept any help that was available.

On the day of the scheduled physical at the Department of Personnel in Manhattan, I was put on a wooden stretcher by my chiropractor, measured after the physical, I was told I was still a half an inch too short. Damn it! The NYPD officials gave me a piece of paper saying that if I grow one half an inch, the police officer position was mine. Today, there is no height requirement allowing all races and genders to have an equal shot at becoming a police officer.

I was completely devastated when I realized that my lifelong dream of getting into law enforcement might never materialize. I was graduating high school. What would I do with my life? What would I do after high school? I knew my parents couldn’t afford to send me to a four-year college.

In order to sort things out after graduation, I accompanied my eighty-two-year-old grandfather Giovanni to Sicily to visit his sisters, who he had not seen for over forty years. A two-month trip would fine-tune my language skills, particularly my Sicilian, which would make me more marketable for a position in law enforcement.

In September 1968, after the relaxing two months in Italy, I returned to face the same dilemma. What would be my future and what would be my profession? After my rejection by the NYPD, my father convinced me to take the postal letter carrier exam. I passed and was assigned to work at the Sheepshead Bay Post Office.

The job as a letter carrier wasn’t too bad. I would work from 6:00 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. and get plenty of overtime. My only complaint was that over a four-year period I was bitten by several dogs, fell down many icy steps, and was spit in the face by a woman who called me a shit because her Social Security check arrived late.

Still looking for something more, I signed up for the army in January 1969, did my basic training at the home of the Eighty-Second Airborne in Ft. Bragg, North Carolina, and did my advanced training at Ft. Lee, Virginia. I later was assigned to the 812 Military Police Company at Ft. Hamilton, New York, where my first sergeant was NYPD Detective Bill Clark. He later became one of the executive producers of the Emmy winning TV series NYPD Blue.

One Saturday night in September of 1970, I decided to go to Manhattan for the traditional Italian Feast of San Gennaro in Little Italy with my friend Bobby Golden. While walking through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowds in the streets, I inadvertently stepped on the foot of a beautiful Italian girl. She was about nineteen years old with long brown hair and had the face of an angel. I apologized for my clumsiness and offered to buy her a cappuccino and pastry at the famous Ferrara’s, which she and her friend Valerie graciously accepted.

Over cappuccino, I learned her name was Angela, and she was a Bronx girl who worked at the Federal Reserve Bank in Manhattan. It seemed our meeting was something out of a fairytale. I really liked her. We spoke for several hours. The night ended with a good-night kiss that lasted several wonderful minutes and a plan for a follow-up date in the Bronx.

In September 1971, I learned that the United States Treasury Department was hiring US Customs Patrol Officers (CPO) to work the New York waterfront and JFK International Airport. It was a police position that required making arrests and carrying a firearm. All I had to do was complete a federal transfer form, and I would be considered for the position.

My life finally seemed on track. Life was good. Angela and I were seriously dating and talking about marriage. My job application with US Customs was being processed, and I had passed the first interview with the prospect of a police job on the horizons.

In anticipation of receiving the acceptance letter from Customs, I periodically checked with my carrier to see if any government letters had arrived. One cold morning in February 1972, I received the long-awaited letter from Customs announcing my appointment date of March 6 at their headquarters at 201 Varick Street in Manhattan.

I felt reborn and unable to keep the secret. I immediately called Angela, now my fiancée. She seemed happy for me but was afraid of the potential danger of a police job. I knew that she was content marrying me even if I stayed a mailman.

I spent a sleepless night in anticipation of my new government job. A couple of hours before my appointment, I finally fell asleep dreaming about my first day on the job. Would they give me my gun and badge tomorrow? What would be my assignment, the airport or waterfront? Finally, the morning arrived; I took a shower, put on a brand-new suit that would hopefully give me the image of a young fed, and hopped the D-train to the city.

I arrived at the CPO headquarters and was not impressed. They were located on the first floor adjacent to a truck loading dock. Inside the loading areas were jalopies, dilapidated Ramblers that Customs used for their uniformed patrol fleet. The blue and white Rambler had the US Customs insignia peeling off both the driver and passenger doors.

At the orientation, Captain James Harrigan, the CPO director, met me and the other recruits for the swearing in. Harrigan was about fifty years old and fondly earned the nickname Jingles because of his habit of jingling quarters in his hands when he spoke to people. Harrigan gave each recruit a manila envelope, and I knew the day of my dreams had arrived. I eagerly opened my envelope to find a rusty badge, a billy club, a crest for my uniform hat, a pair of old military handcuffs, a summons book, six bullets, and a service revolver. It was the oldest gun I had ever seen, a rusty .38-caliber Smith & Wesson police special with a four-inch barrel.

We were then loaded into a beat-up, corroded patrol car. It had a banging muffler, worn-out shocks, and over one hundred thousand miles on the odometer. The original seats had long worn out and had been replaced by wooden boards. The driver demonstrated a jerry-rigged burglar alarm that had to be constantly switched on and off to achieve a sound vaguely reminiscent of a siren. I couldn’t imagine that this kind of police vehicle would be used to chase after smugglers.

We were taken to a nearby police equipment store where I bought a new holster for my gun and handcuffs. I couldn’t wait to get home to polish my badge and gun so I could promptly report to work the following day. I also learned that day I was going to be assigned to the waterfront, working each of the different shifts that included 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., 4:00 p.m. to midnight, and midnight to 8:00 a.m.

The next day, I decided to drive to the city and agreed to pick up another recruit, Jack Russo, who worked with me in the post office and lived nearby. All we could talk about was how antiquated the Customs’ patrol appeared to be, but it still beat working at the post office. Suddenly, we noticed a speeding car that had passed two red lights and almost caused a major car accident. We got alongside the car before he entered the Belt Parkway and noticed the driver was smoking marijuana. When he realized we were eyeing him, he took off. Jack and I looked at each other and said, Why not? Maybe it’s a stolen car or a drug dealer. We decided to take off after the fleeing car with our badges in our hands. Unfortunately, the suspect outmaneuvered my 1968 Plymouth Satellite and eluded us by getting off at an unexpected exit. We laughed and agreed never to tell anyone about our first failure in our performance as federal officers.

During the next week, all the recruits were brought to the Customs firing range, which was across from the World Trade Center. We reported to Captain Volpicelli, an expert marksman who constantly smoked thin Italian-style cigars. In my preparation for Customs, I never placed much emphasis on firearm qualification because I excelled as an expert sharpshooter in the army. Unfortunately, the firearms qualification for the Treasury Department was a lot harder and more difficult in which to qualify.

For almost two weeks, I had difficulty in attaining a passing score as the other recruits had done. Volpicelli told me that if I failed to pass the firearms qualification, I would be dropped from the ranks. I realized the repercussions were all too real, but Angela knew if I relaxed, I could easily qualify. So we met up for lunch before that afternoon’s qualification, and she helped me relax. Lo and behold, thanks to Angela’s relaxation techniques, I passed with flying colors.

After the first day working on the piers, the captain told us, This entire pier area is considered an international border area just like an airport. All you must know is that as a Customs officer, you have the right to search without a warrant, any vessel, person, vehicle, or property entering or exiting the pier.

The first few weeks on the docks, I wanted Angela to get the same adrenaline rush that I was experiencing. When I picked her up from work, I drove over the Brooklyn Bridge and took the pier route along Columbia Street, as if I was on uniform patrol. I would tell her, Make sure you look at the fences. If it looks like anyone is jumping, let me know. We can make our first arrest together. Angela would laugh and scold me for taking her out on a cheap date.

There was no mention of attending an academy, but we were told the senior CPOs would be providing our training. I found it amazing that without any formal training in Customs’ law, I was working alone on the docks, in many cases without a training officer. Here I was, a young, untrained, skinny, twenty-one-year-old kid being left alone on a dangerous pier reportedly controlled by organized crime.

One Saturday morning, I was in uniform assigned to Manhattan Pier 92 on the North River. The detail was Vigilance for Narcotics, where we inspected crew and visitors exiting the HMS Queen Elizabeth that had just arrived from Europe. I decided to stop a crewman who worked as a musician on the ship and said, Sir, US Customs. I’d like to ask you a few questions. The crewman simply ignored me as if I didn’t exist. I was frustrated. Should I use force to stop him? Call for backup? Or simply let him go?

Suddenly, a powerful voice of authority intervened, Excuse me, Officer, can I help you? I recognized him as one of the senior CPOs named Dominick Sieni, a World War II Silver Star recipient. In Customs, he had the reputation of being the best plainclothes officer in the CPO ranks.

Sieni proceeded to explain that he would be taking the crewman back to the ship where a complaint would be made to the captain, which would undoubtedly result in his termination. Sieni then proceeded to bring him to a private search area where he conducted an extensive search of his person and later his quarters that proved negative. The crewman was clearly remorseful for being disrespectful, fearful of losing his job and later became my informant.

Sieni immediately became my hero and mentor on the job. I have always cherished his advice, Never be intimidated by anyone. You represent the US Government, and there may come times when you get your butt kicked, but you should never be intimidated into not doing your sworn duty. I have cherished Sieni’s advice in my law-enforcement career especially when investigating powerful drug lords, terrorists, career criminals, and organized crime.

Angela became concerned for my safety and had trouble getting used to her fiancée who had to carry a gun. What later changed her attitude was an experience at a friend’s wedding reception. Our waiter recognized me as being the CPO who arrested him for cocaine possession, which resulted in jail time. During that tense encounter, Angela reached her arm around to give me a little hug to make sure I was wearing my gun. Fortunately, I defused the incident peacefully, and the waiter acknowledged I was simply doing my job.

My first life-and-death situation was at Bush Docks in Brooklyn. This is an area crisscrossed by a lot of train tracks and was heavily used for shipping goods during World War II. I observed a visitor moving on and off the gangplank three times to see if Customs was at the gate. I jumped into my private car to hide and allowed the visitor to make the fourth trip. When he saw me approaching, he immediately began to run. I confronted him near the train tracks and cornered him between two railroad cars.

I noticed his hand was pulling something out of his jacket pocket, so I pulled my gun and ordered, Let me see your hands! I could see he wasn’t listening to my orders. He foolishly pulled out a gun and started to point it at me. I ordered him twice, Drop the gun! When I yelled the third time, I mentally decided I was going to shoot and began to press down on my trigger finger. Suddenly, he realized I meant business and dropped the gun.

I was literally trembling, but I never realized that during that entire ordeal I was being backed up by an old Irish cop on traffic duty. He yelled to me, I have you covered, kid, while I cuffed the suspect. After additional police backup arrived and my search uncovered drugs, the cop brought me up to a local luncheonette to have a cup of coffee in order to calm me down.

In June of 1972, I was reassigned to work at JFK Airport. I befriended many of the Customs’ special agents who appreciated the fact that I spoke Spanish and used me in their arrest processing, interrogation, and follow-up investigations involving Spanish-speaking smugglers. I learned a lot of good investigative and interrogation techniques that helped me throughout my career from these special agents.

One day, another CPO and I noticed a Colombian woman going through inspection with a two-year-old baby crying hysterically. What aroused my suspicions was that she didn’t do anything to try and quiet the baby. I tipped off one of the female inspectors who told the woman, You know, I’m a mother too. I think this baby’s diaper needs changing. Despite the women’s objections, she took off the baby’s diaper and found a pound of cocaine.

On another occasion, a few CPOs and I observed a Colombian man coming off an Avianca flight from Bogotá with a bowling ball. We looked at each other in amazement because we knew the sport of that country was soccer, not bowling. We asked the Customs inspector to conduct a 100 percent inspection on the passenger. The inspector was a little nervous in drilling a hole in the bowling ball for fear of a complaint, so we convinced the supervisors to authorize the drilling, which resulted in the seizure of a pound of cocaine.

My hunches weren’t always successful. One evening, while covering a flight from Rome and looking for smuggled jewelry, I noticed an elderly Italian man dressed neatly in a suit. When he bent over to pick up his luggage, I saw that he was wearing some sort of homemade vest. I really didn’t want to roust a sweet old guy that reminded me of my grandfather. I reluctantly brought him into the Customs office, and without having to say anything further, he immediately confessed in an Italian accent, You got me and removed the vest. To my amazement, it was a homemade vest that contained a dozen pepperonis. Once I regained my composure from laughing so hard, I spoke to the grandpa to calm him down and let him go with the pepperoni.

In late August of 1972, I received a disturbing call from headquarters that Captain Harrigan wanted to see me ASAP, and they were sending a patrol car to pick me up. I walked into his office, and there was the captain, stone-faced, jingling his quarters. This time, he dropped them on the floor and made a mad dash to pick them up. I laughed to myself and wondered what was so important for this private meeting.

Harrigan explained that the agents had a major organized crime heroin smuggling investigation out of the Detroit office that required the services of a Sicilian-speaking agent. Harrigan remembered from my interview that I was fluent in Sicilian and convinced the agents to use me on the upcoming Title III wiretap. Harrigan told me the Detroit detail would last a minimum of twenty-one days, and if the wiretap was renewed, additional time would be required. I explained to him that I really appreciated his thinking of me; however, I was supposed to get married on September 24 and was already approved for one month of vacation to go on my honeymoon in Italy.

I emphasized that if I cancelled the wedding reception and honeymoon, I would lose thousands of dollars in deposits, not to mention the fact that Angela would kill me. He laughed and gave me a speech about dedication to duty and the unexpected twists and turns of being a cop. Harrigan basically said I had no say in this matter; however, Customs was an agency with a heart and guaranteed that they would fly me in for the day of the wedding. Great, now I had to think of what to tell Angela.

So I made an unexpected visit to Angela in the Bronx to break the great news. In my heart, I was excited over the opportunity to work with experienced federal agents on the investigation. It would be great for my resume and future endeavors in advancing to a special agent. On the other hand, I didn’t want to upset Angela since we were working on many premarriage projects, such as fixing up our apartment in Brooklyn. I didn’t want these responsibilities to fall solely upon her shoulders.

When I arrived, Angela was surprised to see me at the door and had a lot of questions as to why I made the unexpected visit to the Bronx. I told her I had something of major importance to talk about, and we should go to a quiet place in the house. First, I hugged her and told her how much I loved her, and then I explained what Harrigan had ordered me to do. She hesitantly accepted the bad news and realized, like many wives, the importance of supporting their loved ones in their police work.

Upon our arrival in Detroit, the Customs’ case agent and his partner met our group and checked us in at a local motel in St. Claire Shores, a suburb of Detroit where the subject of the investigation lived. We were then escorted to their district office in downtown Detroit for a briefing about the operation.

At the briefing were the Customs special agent in charge (SAC), members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP), and about twenty Customs agents. The case agent provided everyone with handouts incorporating the approved Title III wiretap and a basic overview of the operation. The target of the operation was a reputed mobster from Sicily who was suspected of operating a sophisticated heroin-smuggling operation by truck through Windsor, Canada.

The goal was to use the Title III wiretap to learn the expected arrival date of the heroin shipment and to develop a conspiracy and drug-smuggling case that would result in the prosecution of drug kingpins both in the United States and Canada. I was exhausted lying in my motel bed that evening. I went over the activities of the day, and I still couldn’t believe I was part of a major investigation. My job was to work twelve-hour shifts and listen to incoming phone calls with hopes of learning the shipment date. I was hoping to be the agent to promptly intercept that important phone call so the operation could be completed, and I could attend my wedding.

I was assigned to work the graveyard night shift out of a St. Claire Shores basement apartment rented under a pseudonym by Customs. I would start the tour off by reviewing the previous logs to learn of any interesting calls. Since it was late night, there were very few calls, so I set up a little cot near the recorder where I could get a few hours of sleep. Most of the incoming calls were personal involving family members. I got a kick out of hearing the subjects’ two kids make prank phone calls by ordering take-out food to their neighbors and the subject having an X-rated conversation with his girlfriend.

One night, almost a week into the operation, I fell asleep on the cot with my headphones next to my head. Suddenly, the machine started beeping like crazy, indicating an incoming call. I jumped up, stubbed my toe, knocked over the cot, and made it just in time to monitor the call. The call was of major importance; it announced, in their secret code, the arrival date of the heroin shipment.

The agents began to prepare for the drug interception starting with a surveillance in Canada. Agents surveilled the shipment to a parking lot in a nearby Detroit strip mall. My ears were fixed on the radio communication awaiting the word to move in on the smugglers who were delivering the heroin.

Almost immediately, word was given, and all you could hear was chaos over the radio. Agents were yelling that our subject was making a mad dash to exit the parking lot, ultimately striking and totaling two government cars. Finally, he was taken out at gunpoint, and the drugs were seized. I later learned from agents that they persuaded our subject’s wife to cooperate by playing her the telephone calls I had monitored between her husband and his girlfriend.

The next day, the SAC called me into his office to thank me personally for my assistance. The SAC told me he was impressed with my language skills and was writing a Good Guy letter for my personnel file. Moreover, he needed an Italian-speaking agent, and I should consider applying for the position. My immediate reaction was Yes, but I explained I would have to get back to him since I was getting married in a week and would have to speak to my future wife.

Angela was a traditional Italian-American woman who preferred living near her family. The thought of moving to Detroit might leave me standing alone at the altar. I surprised Angela again by going to her house to give her the good news that the wedding was still on. She hugged me for several minutes, looked at me, and said, I don’t know if I can handle being a cop’s wife. I don’t like to be left alone all the time, and I really need the security of knowing that you are around. It was not a good time to tell her about the job offer, so I decided to wait until our honeymoon.

Angela and I were married at St. Clare’s R. C. Church, a quaint little church in the Morris Park section of the Bronx. She was truly a beautiful bride, and I didn’t have any second thoughts that she would be my soulmate for life. We had a modest Italian-style wedding that was attended