Calabrese Sr.: I think it got mostly in his sleeve, Frankie. There was not a b.l.o.o.d.y spot, because when I, when I got there, there wasn't a lotta blood there. I think it got mostly in his sleeve, Frankie. There was not a b.l.o.o.d.y spot, because when I, when I got there, there wasn't a lotta blood there.

Frank Jr.: Oh, so see, okay... Oh, so see, okay...

Calabrese Sr.: The watch, [Nick] had the watch on, that had a little blood on it. The watch, [Nick] had the watch on, that had a little blood on it.

Frank Jr.: Okay. So... Okay. So...

Calabrese Sr.: Yeah, it had to be this way. 'Cause I kept the watch. I took it in my pocket. Yeah, it had to be this way. 'Cause I kept the watch. I took it in my pocket.

My father was hostile toward my uncle because Nick bad-mouthed him prior to their reporting to prison, and arranged to use a different criminal law firm. When my dad befriended an inmate and made man named J.R., who had transferred from FCI Pekin to Milan, J.R. told my dad that Uncle Nick openly blamed him for the jailing of his sons. That Nick aired dirty laundry to someone outside the family angered my father. He was concerned that if my uncle bad-mouthed my father to Jimmy Marcello, the Calabrese brothers would be seen as a "problem." At that point they would be expendable, resulting in Marcello having them both whacked, much like the Spilotro brothers.

Uncle Nick and I had spoken prior to my being locked up. He admitted he was tired of "the life," and had been for a long time. Being a gangster had lost its l.u.s.ter, and he wasn't getting rich working on his brother's crew.

On the March 27 tape, I discussed my uncle again. We mentioned Nick's stupidity for signing Fecarotta's gambling winnings form. To gain my father's trust, I pretended to side with him against my uncle.

Frank Jr.: And I mean that's the other thing. I just think of all the stupid things he done. Look what he did with Johnny [Fecarotta]. He signed the f.u.c.king gambling thing. And I mean that's the other thing. I just think of all the stupid things he done. Look what he did with Johnny [Fecarotta]. He signed the f.u.c.king gambling thing.

Calabrese Sr.: Yeah. Yeah.

Frank Jr.: How stupid could you be? How stupid could you be?

Calabrese Sr.: Out of town. I'm the one that told him, what'd you do? He said, I signed it. I says, did you know what you did? You committed yourself to being there. Oh, I never thought of that. I said, he made you sign it, why didn't... Out of town. I'm the one that told him, what'd you do? He said, I signed it. I says, did you know what you did? You committed yourself to being there. Oh, I never thought of that. I said, he made you sign it, why didn't...

Frank Jr.: [ [Laughs]

Calabrese Sr.:...You tell him to sign it?

Frank Jr.: He knew him, right? He had his number. He knew him, right? He had his number.

Calabrese Sr.: Oh, everybody has his number. Frank...don't you think they got his number now? If he's doin' like stuff... Oh, everybody has his number. Frank...don't you think they got his number now? If he's doin' like stuff...

Frank Jr.: Yeah. Yeah.

Calabrese Sr.: They're lookin' at him [in Pekin]. What are you? f.u.c.kin' crazy? Watch this guy when he gets on the street. Watch him.... Keep an eye on him. They're lookin' at him [in Pekin]. What are you? f.u.c.kin' crazy? Watch this guy when he gets on the street. Watch him.... Keep an eye on him.

Frank Jr.: I know, I know. I know, I know.

Calabrese Sr.: Tell you something? I hope the best thing he f.u.c.kin' does... Tell you something? I hope the best thing he f.u.c.kin' does...

Frank Jr.: Is move. Is move.

Calabrese Sr.:...is move. Go back to Las Vegas where he wants to go.

Frank Jr.: Least then if he signs somethin' now, he's, uh [ Least then if he signs somethin' now, he's, uh [laughs], he could say he lives there.

Calabrese Sr.: Yeah. Yeah.

Frank Jr.: I know. I been thinkin' a lot of stupid things he did. I know. I been thinkin' a lot of stupid things he did.

That's what concerned me about the gloves. Because...

Calabrese Sr.: Frankie, do you know what the most, the, the stupid thing he did... Frankie, do you know what the most, the, the stupid thing he did...

Frank Jr.: Yeah. Yeah.

Calabrese Sr.:...that I can't get out of my system? I forgive him for it, but I can't-is take my family and try to turn 'em on me. I would never do that to anybody. There's no way that I would go to a guy's kids and put hate in his kids to 'em.

Once in a while, my dad would eyeball me if I was a little too specific about certain events. Whenever a question raised a red flag during our conversation, I would stare back at him, look him in the eye, and act dismissive.

"Then f.u.c.k it! Let's not talk if you're gonna act that way." That would reel him back into the conversation. I couldn't push anything; nor could I ask about anything out of line. I was on my guard because my father was good at reading people. Sometimes he'd challenge me or look at me funny.

"Why bring that up?" he would ask.

The thought of him catching on constantly ran through my mind.

Before each encounter, Agents Maseth and Hartnett presented a wish list of subjects, some stemming from previous conversations. If my dad happened to drift into certain hot topics, Maseth might ask me for more detail on a specific murder or a particular act next time. At times their wish list was extensive.

I had no control over the recorder. They turned it on when I left the SIS office and turned it off when I returned. That was because in prior federal cases, guys turned the recorder on and off whenever they they chose. The original tapes were valuable in court only if they were unedited. chose. The original tapes were valuable in court only if they were unedited.

After six months of nerve-racking intensity, my prison yard chats were starting to suck the life out of me. By June 1999 it was apparent to the Two Mikes that the mission was becoming too dangerous for me to continue. It was time to get me out of Milan. Six months of wearing the wire had drained me. I was beaten down. I needed rest. After my release from prison, if I was agreeable, I could return to visit my dad under more controlled and less dangerous circ.u.mstances.

The FBI's next plan was to transfer me to a federal facility in Florida under the guise of enrolling me in a drug-rehab program. By November 1999, I would be eligible to be released to a halfway house in Chicago to begin to rebuild my life.

I wasn't looking forward to the final taping session on the evening of June 1, 1999. The process had become so overwhelming that I was second-guessing my ability to hide my emotions.

My father and I spoke about letting go of the hard feelings between us. We talked about my working alongside Ronnie Jarrett once I got out. We talked about keeping in touch and which codes to use to communicate secretly. I went along with the conversation, feeling disappointed and guilty. Sadly, this conversation proved that Dad had no intention of keeping his promise to step away from the Outfit. He had big plans, and if I was going to be a part of them, I was expected to "earn" my place on the crew again.

Calabrese Sr.: But what I'm, what I'm gonna, what I may wanna do is, is what I wanted to tell ya is, is, ah, I make sure you partners with Ronnie someday. But what I'm, what I'm gonna, what I may wanna do is, is what I wanted to tell ya is, is, ah, I make sure you partners with Ronnie someday.

Frank Jr.: Ah... Ah...

Calabrese Sr.: But you have to earn that, Frankie. But I tell you now right up front. But you have to earn that, Frankie. But I tell you now right up front.

Frank Jr.: All right. All right.

Calabrese Sr.: And, ah, he's a good guy and, ah... And, ah, he's a good guy and, ah...

Frank Jr.: We ain't gonna have to answer to n.o.body else. We ain't gonna have to answer to n.o.body else.

Calabrese Sr.: n.o.body else. No f.u.c.king body else. No, n.o.body else. No, we're not answering to n.o.body else. Did any, did anybody else f.u.c.king supply us? Only one guy... n.o.body else. No f.u.c.king body else. No, n.o.body else. No, we're not answering to n.o.body else. Did any, did anybody else f.u.c.king supply us? Only one guy...

Frank Jr.: I don't know where all your friends are right now. I mean... I don't know where all your friends are right now. I mean...

Calabrese Sr.: And you can bet soon as Joy [Nick] gets out, she's gonna go try to dirty Ronnie's ears up. If she hasn't dirtied his ears up yet. And you can bet soon as Joy [Nick] gets out, she's gonna go try to dirty Ronnie's ears up. If she hasn't dirtied his ears up yet.

The session ended on a lighter note as my dad joked about Mom's reaction when he first joined the Outfit back in the early 1960s.

"I'm not gonna slap myself on the back," he said to me on the yard, "but when I got around these people in the sixties, okay? That's when your mother...remember she made the statement when I got around them in the sixties I lived like d.i.c.k Tracy."

The night before I was transferred from Milan to a drug-rehab program at the federal prison in Coleman, Florida, we shared an emotional moment with tears running down my dad's face. Me, I was ready to cry, but for a different reason. I was deceiving my father. I finished the betrayal of my father by leaving him with the impression that I was won over, and would return to the fold once I was released.

Frank Jr.: Can't dwell on the old stuff. Can't dwell on the old stuff.

Calabrese Sr.: No. No.

Frank Jr.: Ya gotta talk about the new stuff. Ya gotta talk about the new stuff.

Calabrese Sr.: The thing is, ya got to do, is you gotta get out there and keep yourself out of trouble. That's the most important thing.... And, ah, then, I will, ah, I will tell you something little by little. There's no sense now because you're gonna be gone for another maybe ten or twelve months yet. And, ah... The thing is, ya got to do, is you gotta get out there and keep yourself out of trouble. That's the most important thing.... And, ah, then, I will, ah, I will tell you something little by little. There's no sense now because you're gonna be gone for another maybe ten or twelve months yet. And, ah...

Frank Jr.: Plus you still think I'm not gonna come back. Plus you still think I'm not gonna come back.

Calabrese Sr.: Come back where, Son? Come back where, Son?

Frank Jr.: Well, you keep telling me, are you gonna come and visit me, are you gonna visit me? Well, you keep telling me, are you gonna come and visit me, are you gonna visit me?

Calabrese Sr.: No. I know you are, Frank. I'm... No. I know you are, Frank. I'm...

Frank Jr.: I feel sometimes ya think I'm not gonna come and visit ya? I feel sometimes ya think I'm not gonna come and visit ya?

Calabrese Sr.: Yeah, I gotta tell ya something. I have no doubts you're coming back, Son. Ah, I think, ah, what happened in here, is you and I got to understand each other a little bit. Yeah, I gotta tell ya something. I have no doubts you're coming back, Son. Ah, I think, ah, what happened in here, is you and I got to understand each other a little bit.

(Long pause) Frank Jr.: It'll go by fast. It's gonna go by fast. It'll go by fast. It's gonna go by fast.

Calabrese Sr.: I ain't worried about that. I ain't worried about that.

At the end of the final taping session, we hugged and said our good-byes. Then I crossed the yard back to the agents at the SIS office for the last time. Everything between me and him, good or bad, happy or sad, ran through my mind. I wanted to be my dad's savior. In fact, I ended up being my father's executioner.

After lights-out, I lay in my bunk and wept quietly, wishing things were different. The strain of dealing with my father had taken a huge toll on me-and it was the last time I would hug, kiss, and touch him.

I transferred out of FCI Milan in June 1999 and flew to Oklahoma City, where I spent two weeks in lockdown. My cellie was a convict from Kansas City serving time on a federal machine-gun rap. He was sedated on meds. From Oklahoma City, I hopped on Con Air to Tampa, where I took a bus to the Federal Correctional Complex in Coleman, Florida. FCC Coleman consisted of four separate inst.i.tutions, a low-, a medium-, and two high-security facilities, with one of the high-security facilities an all-female camp. For my last six months, I was a.s.signed to the lowest-security facility, located next to a cow pasture. Most of the male inmate population were South American nationals plucked from the notorious cocaine wars. an all-female camp. For my last six months, I was a.s.signed to the lowest-security facility, located next to a cow pasture. Most of the male inmate population were South American nationals plucked from the notorious cocaine wars.

I lived in a dorm and hung around two other inmates: a murderer from Alabama and a Daytona sailor busted for smuggling Haitian refugees aboard his fishing boat. Compared to the MCC and Milan, the atmosphere at Coleman was more like a camp. With its warm climate and large number of Latin inmates, the primary recreation was baseball.

I wouldn't be at Coleman long enough to complete the drug-treatment curriculum that would shave eighteen months off of my original fifty-seven-month sentence. I was granted the eighteen-month credit anyway-the only concession I gained by cooperating with the FBI. With another six months off for good behavior I served almost thirty-six months.

During the six months I spent inside FCC Coleman, my cooperation with the Bureau was kept top secret. To keep in touch with the Bureau, I placed Mike Hartnett on my "call list" under an a.s.sumed name. Only a few key people at the FBI knew I was cooperating. In early November 1999, wearing prison-issued jeans, shirt, and tennis shoes, and carrying a cardboard box with my belongings, I walked out of FCC Coleman with two hundred dollars' gate money stuffed in my pocket-sixty dollars of which went for a cab ride to the Orlando airport. I had no driver's license, so when I got to the airport, I walked up to the airline gate and handed over a special prison ID that detailed my release status.

I felt stupid. I had to tie the belt loops together with a shoestring to keep my pants from falling down. After I checked in, I walked into the airport mall to buy a duffel bag for my stuff...and a belt for my jeans, which were two sizes too big. I wasn't used to walking from one storefront to another without permission. I stood at the edge of the carpet of the luggage store until the girl behind the counter saw me and said, "You know, you can come in." Standing in line at one of the fast-food restaurants for a coffee and sandwich, I noticed the hurried pace of the outside world while the customer behind me marveled at my patience. sandwich, I noticed the hurried pace of the outside world while the customer behind me marveled at my patience.

Landing in Chicago, I was met by Kurt, who presented me with a bag of Johnny's Beef sandwiches from the stand in Elmwood Park. Later we met up with Danny Alberga from Bella Luna, who arrived with pizzas. After Kurt and Danny slipped me a few hundred dollars, I checked into the halfway house on Ashland Avenue, not far from downtown. I wasn't permitted to leave the premises the first two weeks while attending reentry cla.s.ses. Once I found a job, I would be required to pay rent. After a couple more weeks, I got my first four-hour Sunday-morning church pa.s.s so I could meet Lisa and the kids.

I found reuniting with my family emotionally difficult. I was nervous. Lisa and I were divorced and I knew she was dating other guys. I didn't know how she felt, but I wanted to see the kids. I hadn't seen them during the six months I had spent in Florida, nor had I seen them the last few months in Milan when I was doing the recordings.

Lisa was nervous during the ride down to see me. She had such terrible anxiety about my coming home that she had to go on meds. She wondered whether she was done with that chapter of her life. But we still had two little kids, and I think she felt I deserved a second chance. Besides, the kids were asking, "When's Daddy coming home?"

My first meeting with Lisa was cordial, a polite hug and a kiss on the cheek. Holding a large stuffed toy frog, I stood humbly before my wife and children, straight, off drugs, broke, and unemployed. Who knew where our relationship was going? n.o.body, not even Lisa, knew about the Milan taping sessions or my cooperation with the FBI. I couldn't tell her. It wasn't that I couldn't trust her; I just didn't want to put that burden on her.

I remember one Sunday during a pa.s.s when the four of us went out to breakfast. Nonchalantly I pulled a Baggie of white powder out of my pocket, and suddenly shivers went up Lisa's spine. I realized what the protein powder resembled and immediately apologized.

I was working for Danny at Bella Luna, slowly getting back into things. At first it was weird working at the restaurant. I was slow and not used to the fast pace. Soon I was granted weekend pa.s.ses. I'd stay with my mother. I had my old room back. It was a strange feeling because my belongings were reduced to a couple of boxes in her garage. The halfway house would call in the middle of the night to make sure I was there. into things. At first it was weird working at the restaurant. I was slow and not used to the fast pace. Soon I was granted weekend pa.s.ses. I'd stay with my mother. I had my old room back. It was a strange feeling because my belongings were reduced to a couple of boxes in her garage. The halfway house would call in the middle of the night to make sure I was there.

During the 1999 Christmas holiday, events started to get heavy. First, Uncle Ed was killed in a bizarre automobile accident. He had been drummed out of HEREUI in 1998 with a promise of immunity against corruption charges. Out for a pizza, he was. .h.i.t by a drunk who was driving a snow plow. My mom was devastated by the death of her brother. Then on December 23, I received a phone call at Bella Luna from Kurt.

"Did you hear what just happened? Turn on the TV."

I switched on the television. Ronnie Jarrett had just been shot in front of his house in Bridgeport. There on the TV at Bella Luna was an old mug shot of Ronnie. Underneath it the caption read, "Attempted gangland slaying of Chinatown mobster today." The news didn't say if he was alive or dead. I called Mike Hartnett.

"We know about it. If you hear anything, let us know. We'll talk later. Is everything okay?"

The hit on Jarrett broke a four-year drought of Outfit murders. Suddenly this changed the dynamic on the streets. For Maseth, the killing of Ronnie Jarrett was one of the first setbacks for Operation Family Secrets. I spoke to Mike about the incident.

Coincidentally, on December 23, Maseth had decided to do a quick check on Jarrett. Because of heavy traffic, he took an alternate route to Jarrett's Lowe Street residence. Approaching the house, Mike encountered something completely unexpected-a bleeding Jarrett lying in the street with half a dozen bullets in the face, chest, and arm. His son Ronnie junior recounted hearing firecrackers while sleeping late. Jarrett's wife ran outside screaming, too frightened to approach her fallen husband lying by his car. After rushing off the front porch Ronnie junior knelt at his father's side. Mike had missed Jarrett's killers by a matter of minutes, if not seconds.

Careful not to be made, Mike pulled alongside the crime scene and called in the shooting. He looped around to see if anybody suspicious was nearby. As Mike got out of his car to see Jarrett whispering to his son, a yellow Ryder rental truck pulled into an alley blocks away. Two men jumped out, splashed gasoline inside and out, and set the truck ablaze. Once the fireball shot up in the air, the men jumped into a black Lincoln and sped away.

Mike's thoughts flashed to me and the case. Who ordered the hit, and was it related to my uncle or me? The FBI knew the Outfit was watching Uncle Nick inside prison, while the Outfit knew the FBI was watching Jarrett. If Ronnie was fair game, the Outfit had to know that I could hurt them. I was concerned: if the Outfit had whacked Ronnie, could they kill any other member of the Calabrese crew?

A few minutes after I saw Ronnie on television, the phone rang again. It was my dad. Hearing his voice wasn't a complete surprise. We had been in frequent contact since my release, him calling the restaurant and having his a.s.sociates check on me.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Didn't you hear what happened?"

Knowing the prison phone line was being recorded, I broke the news vaguely. "You know my brother Nicky's friends, Ronnie and Tony? Their father just got gunned down in front of his house this morning. They aren't saying if he pulled through or not."

I could tell by the silence on the other end that the news had taken him by surprise. Based on his reaction, I was convinced that he'd had no hand in Ronnie's shooting. He did know that Jarrett had been whistled in by Toots Caruso and Jimmy DiForti for a sit-down with Johnny Apes.

At the time of the shooting, Jarrett was running both my father's operations and his own rogue drug dealing. While Jarrett had a fearsome reputation as a go-to killer for the Outfit, he was only half Italian and therefore not a made guy, which irritated my father. Someone as smart and seasoned as Ronnie knew better than to ignore an order to "come in," especially from the bosses. By my estimation, Dad would have been the only person Ronnie would have listened to, overriding the order to come in. Perhaps my father overestimated his standing with Johnny Apes by giving Jarrett such bad advice as to duck the meeting. would have listened to, overriding the order to come in. Perhaps my father overestimated his standing with Johnny Apes by giving Jarrett such bad advice as to duck the meeting.

Jarrett clung to life for another month at Cook County Hospital before succ.u.mbing to his gunshot wounds. He died on January 25, 2000, effectively derailing any FBI plan to have me return undercover to infiltrate my father's Chinatown crew. Jarrett's death also changed my dad's plans to have me resume street operations while "earning my stripes" with Ronnie.

I had been home only a month or so before Ronnie got killed. If the FBI's plans were to get me back inside the crew, we didn't talk about it. I think they wanted to take it slowly. While I understood how insidious the Outfit was to families like mine, had Ronnie not been killed, I doubt I would have worked with them to put him away. Ronnie wasn't my primary concern, nor was crushing the Outfit.

Organized crime affects people and whole families, and guys like my father were parasites. I chose my battles on a more personal level. I was no cop, just one guy who had seen and heard enough.

To this day, Jarrett's case remains unsolved. Speculation flew. Some surmised that his death wasn't the work of the Outfit, but was outside and drug-related. Some said that the Outfit hired a pair of bikers to murder Jarrett. During a taped visit, Dad revealed to me that once Jimmy Marcello was transferred to Milan, he admitted to him that it wasn't only Ronnie's refusal to sit down that got him killed. The hit was sanctioned by the Outfit, perhaps by Johnny Apes, and had more to do with the drug dealing. The bosses feared that if Jarrett was arrested on drug charges, he would face a long prison sentence and become a liability if he flipped. I responded to my father's revelation with concern and questions.

"How come n.o.body reached out to you before killing Ronnie, your first lieutenant? Aren't you worried for yours and Uncle Nick's safety? Is Jimmy okay with me collecting money for you on the street? Is he going to send somebody after me?"

While he a.s.sured me that everything was "still a go," I remained skeptical about my safety. Was my dad losing status with the bosses? Mike warned me to remain on guard. remained skeptical about my safety. Was my dad losing status with the bosses? Mike warned me to remain on guard.

Ronnie Jarrett's death only accelerated my father's plan to win me over and put me back on the street. While visiting Grandma Sophie's duplex, my stepmother, Diane, handed me a folded note tightly wrapped in cellophane tape.

"What's this?" I asked.