Using his office keys, two teams of FBI agents raided the offices at the hotels he managed for Starr S, the offshore company. On Monday, all guests would be asked to leave, and all reservations would be canceled. The hotels would be closed indefinitely.
As the Cousins were finally allowed phone calls, word of the arrests soon leaked; then it spread like wildfire through the organization. To run or not to run-that was the panicked question the managers asked themselves. Before they could decide, most were under arrest while their offices were practically ransacked by the FBI.
In Biloxi, a lawyer named Stavish was walking with his wife into a Catholic church for Sunday Mass when two agents stopped and announced a detour. Once it was made clear that he and his partner had been indicted for RICO violations, and that he was under arrest, he was given the choice of handing over the keys to their offices or having the FBI kick in the doors. Stavish kissed his wife good-bye, ignored the stunned looks from his fellow parishioners, and left in tears with the agents for his office.
At Treasure Key, four agents found the manager on duty and informed him the casino was about to close. Make the announcement, get everybody out. Another agent phoned Chief Cappel and asked him to come to the casino. It was urgent. When he arrived twenty minutes later, he was urgently arrested. A squad of U.S. marshals helped herd the angry gamblers out of the building and into the parking lot. Those staying in the two hotels were told to immediately pack and leave. When Billy Cappel arrived in a rush, he too was arrested, along with Adam Horn and three casino managers. They left the marshals in charge of the chaos as gamblers, guests, and employees milled about, not wanting to leave but realizing that locks were being placed on all the doors.
Around 3:00 p.m. on Sunday, Phyllis Turban was having iced tea on her veranda and reading a book. Her cell phone buzzed with an unknown number. She said hello, and an anonymous caller said, “You’ve been indicted along with your gal McDover and Vonn Dubose and about a hundred other crooks. The FBI is raiding offices all along the coast, and yours will be next.” Using a burner, but one known to the FBI, she immediately called Claudia, who had heard nothing. Claudia called her contact, Hank Skoley, but got no answer. Both ladies scanned the Internet for news, but saw nothing. Phyllis suggested they take a trip to be on the safe side, and called a charter company in Mobile. A jet was available and could be scrambled in two hours.
As instructed, the charter company called the FBI. Agents followed Phyllis as she hurried to her secret office in a high-end suburban strip mall near the airport. She entered with nothing but keys in her hands, but exited with two bulky Prada bags. They tracked her as she drove to the general aviation terminal at the Mobile Regional Airport.
The charter company informed the FBI that the client, a regular, wished to make a stop in Panama City to pick up one passenger, the ultimate destination being Barbados. The FBI, in conjunction with the FAA, instructed the charter company to proceed. At 4:50, the Lear 60 took off from Mobile for the twenty-minute flight to Panama City.
Meanwhile, Judge McDover sprinted to her favorite condo in Rabbit Run, picked up a few items, stuffed them in a large handbag, and raced to the airport. She was there at 5:15 when the Lear taxied to a stop, and she hurriedly made her way to it. The captain greeted her, welcomed her aboard, then went inside the terminal for the required paperwork. After fifteen minutes, the co-captain informed Claudia and Phyllis that there was some weather over the Gulf and they would be delayed.
“You can’t just go around it?” Phyllis barked.
“Sorry.”
Two black SUVs appeared from behind the jet and parked in front of its left wing. Claudia saw them first and mumbled, “Oh shit.”
After the ladies were handcuffed and taken away, the agents searched the jet. The women had hardly bothered with clothing; instead, they had grabbed all the goodies they could carry. Diamonds, rubies, rare coins, and stacks of cash. Months later it would be inventoried and appraised at $4.2 million. When asked how they planned to get it by customs in Barbados, they did not reply.
Even more loot was seized in raids at McDover’s Rabbit Run condo. When agents finally found her safe room, they were stunned at the cash, jewelry, art, rare books, rare watches, and antiquities. The raid on her home, on the other hand, yielded little in the way of valuable assets. In her office, the agents confiscated the usual list of computers, phones, and files. Phyllis Turban’s office computers were apparently not used for the dirty work. However, the two laptops in her secret office were filled with records of bank accounts, wire transfers, corporate records, real estate records, and correspondence to lawyers in countries famous for being tax havens.
–
The sweep along the Panhandle was broad and swift. By dusk Sunday, twenty-one men and two women were under arrest and facing a battery of racketeering charges that would only increase in the coming weeks. Included in that number was Delgado, who was pumping serious iron in a gym when two agents spoiled his day. On paper, he worked for a bar owned by a company owned by others, and he was charged with the usual money-laundering crimes. Years would pass before his more serious crimes came to light.
42
Cable news discovered the story around 6:00 Sunday evening and seemed unprepared for it. Since the crimes were unknown, as were the defendants, there was little coverage. That changed dramatically with two events: news of the closing of the casino, and the discovery by some unknown researcher of the term “Coast Mafia.” The latter was simply too sensational to ignore, and there were soon live reports from the locked gates of Treasure Key.
Lacy and JoHelen stared at the television with a fascination that bordered on disbelief. The conspiracy was destroyed. The syndicate was busted. The corruption was exposed. The criminals were in jail. The notion of justice was alive. It was overwhelming to even think that they had unleashed these startling events. So much had been lost along the way that it was difficult to feel a sense of pride, at least at that moment. When a “breaking story” interrupted another report, and the face of Judge Claudia McDover appeared on the screen, JoHelen put her hands over her mouth and started crying. The reporter gushed on about Judge McDover and her lawyer getting arrested on a private jet as they tried to flee the country. About half the details were right, but what the reporter lacked in veracity she made up for with enthusiasm.
“Are those tears of joy?” Lacy asked.
“Maybe. I don’t know right now. I’m certainly not sad. It’s just hard to believe.”
“It really is. A few short months ago I’d never heard of those people and I don’t recall thinking much about the casino.”
“When will it be okay to go home?”
“Not sure. Let’s wait until I talk to the FBI.”
Gunther had taken the Jeep to town in search of red meat and charcoal. He was on the porch now, with rib eyes on the grill and potatoes baking in the embers. He popped in occasionally to catch the latest, but by dark the same stories were being recycled. More than once he said, “Congratulations, girls, you’ve just brought down the most corrupt judge in American history. Cheers!”
But they were in no mood to celebrate. JoHelen was almost certain she would keep her job, though the judge who replaced McDover would be free to hire a new court reporter. If she was thinking about her claim under the whistle-blower statute, she never mentioned it. At that moment, such a plan seemed too complicated and time-consuming; that, plus she’d lost her lawyer, the guy who was supposed to know how to navigate the statute.