I clung to the concept of time the best I could. I tried to measure the passing of days and nights, hours and minutes. The mental anguish and psychological strain made it hard to keep my grip on reality. A thud from above? An upstairs neighbor dropped something. Or did the sound come from somewhere else? The next room? My own mind? Did I imagine it? Did it matter? Does anything matter if I don’t get out of here alive? I kept thinking the whole place a tinderbox. What’s to stop the Keeper from torching it once he gets his money? That’s what the gasoline is for, I bet. To destroy the evidence, and I’m the biggest clue.
I pushed my thoughts to wander beyond my chains and fixate on my family. Like a slide projector in my head, each face flashed before me. Janet, Marc, Michael—I loved them dearly and longed for their presence. What would happen to them without me? What would happen to them if these bastards killed me? It wasn’t a farfetched outcome. I wanted to spare my boys the pain and confusion of growing up without a father. I hadn’t even grasped that they could also grow up without a mother, but that was very much a possibility. Then a wave of resolve washed over me. This beautiful family is worth living for. Stay strong for them. It was the greatest solace. They were worth living for. Somehow, some way, I was going to see them again. Holding fast to the hope of reunification with my family—that was my tether to survival and sanity.
Boom!
Without warning, the Keeper burst into the room.
A jolt of electricity went through my body; my chains jumped to life.
“If a building inspector or mailman comes in the building [which happened a couple times] keep your mouth shut.”
He put a straw in my mouth. A few sips. It was room temperature and tasted chlorinated. Borough tap water, I thought.
“You want food?” he asked.
“No.” Is it morning?
He noticed I hadn’t eaten anything from the day before. “Hey, we don’t waste food here,” he barked. “You understand? I won’t bring it if you don’t eat it.”
He dropped a roll of toilet paper next to my head and began straightening the room. I could hear him. It was a big deal to keep the room orderly, which was ironic given the plastic bodily waste pail and the human being he kept shackled in the closet.
The Keeper gave me a handheld radio. It boosted my morale. But was it to pass the time, or mask conversation in the next room? Everything he did was for his benefit, not mine. I was a thing. A means to an end. Still, I was losing the energy to be repulsed by his wickedness. I was getting used to my conditions, but I couldn’t allow exhaustion to wear down my sense of right and wrong. I can’t accept this. I can detach, but I can’t stop caring, I thought. He’ll never convince me that I’ve done anything to deserve this.
When he left the room, I wiggled my aching body into position, negotiating the slack in the chains, and relieved myself. It was humiliating.
* * *
A while later the Keeper burst into the room again, this time irate.
“You didn’t tell me about the third account! You didn’t tell me!”
“I don’t know. I don’t understand,” I said.
“The third account! The employee account!”
He said he’d talked to Buddy and that our company had an account with a lot of money in it that I didn’t tell him about when he interrogated me the day before. He thought I had betrayed him.
The third account, or the employee retirement account, as he called it, was a profit-sharing plan for our employees. The Keeper was furious at the omission.
“I didn’t say anything because you wanted to know about my money,” I said. “The employee account is not my money. It belongs to the employees.”
“Don’t you lie to me, or you’ll end up like the other guy who lied!” he said. “We picked up a guy—had forty bucks in his pocket. We squeezed him and got four hundred thousand dollars. But he lied. Don’t you dare lie.”
I paused and took a long, slow inhale, then said, again, “It belongs to the employees. It’s the truth.”
“How much money is in it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I really don’t know,” I answered.
“How do you not know?! Who signs the checks?”
“I do,” I said.
He was thinking. I thought this could be one of those times when he knew the answer to his question and was testing me.
“I do,” I repeated. “I sign the checks.”
“Well, if you sign the checks then how do you not know how much money is in it?!”
“I just started signing checks for that account, and it needs two signatures,” I said.
“Who else? Who else signs the checks?” he asked.
“Buddy and me,” I said.
He probably figured I was lying, but he couldn’t know for sure. He didn’t know how large businesses worked. He wanted to know but didn’t. It confounded him. It made him angry that people he hated were more successful than he was. He couldn’t do it, so I had to be corrupt. I was exploitative and deceitful. That was the only way to explain his unfulfilled desires to himself. His failures were my fault.
“If you were on the outside, and we had your brother in here, how much money could you get?” he said.
I had to think about it. I had to weigh what he would believe and what I could explain.
“Um, two hundred thousand dollars? If I sold everything and scraped together everything I could, I could maybe get two hundred thousand dollars.”
He stormed off but came back later wanting to know more. This time he was calm.
“So, where do you keep the money in the employee account?” he asked.
“It belongs to the employees, and the money is invested in stocks and bonds,” I said. “You can’t just go to a bank and withdraw it. It’s invested.”
He exhaled. He was frustrated.
“Do you do as badly with their money as you do with your own?” he sniped before leaving the room in a huff. I gathered it was a reference to the real estate investment I was losing money on. I would later learn that real estate was his defunct passion, and that his knowledge of the company profit-sharing fund didn’t come from Buddy, but a former employee.
* * *
That night, the phone rang again at 2 Ballantine Lane. Janet had asked our close friends and family not to call the house. It was critical to keep the line open. She also asked them not to say anything about the kidnapping until the police gave the go-ahead. My life depended on it. By now, people in the neighborhood had to know something was wrong. The signs were everywhere, but they were left to guess. Inside the house, however, there was relative clarity. There was only one thing to do: wait. Wait for the kidnappers to call. And at 9:55 p.m. on Thursday, November 14, they did.
As before, Janet let it ring a few times before picking up. She had barely slept or eaten since Tuesday night. It didn’t matter. Not now. She had to step up. The detectives and agents took their marks. Someone clicked a record button. “And…go.”
“Hello,” Janet answered.
“Hello, Janet there?” a male voice said.
“Yes, this is Janet.”
“Tell Buddy to go to the Exxon Station—”
“Wait! Wait, please.”
“Tell Buddy—”
“No, please. I can’t remember. Is Jack ok?” she asked.
“Stop talking and listen,” the voice said over her. “Tell Buddy to go to the Exxon station around the corner from his house. There is a trash can and inside it is a message for Buddy.”
“Buddy’s here, will you speak to him?” she asked.
“No. A message from Jack—”
“Is Jack ok?” she asked, again.
“There is a message from Jack…in the garbage bag…inside the trash can…at the Exxon station around the corner from Buddy’s house. He must get that immediately. All of the information is in the bag.”
Janet tried to make the caller stay on the phone as she’d been coached by law enforcement, but she was frantic and wanted to hear from me.
“A message from Buddy?” she asked. “Speak to Buddy, he’s right here. I can’t remember.”
“Stop talking and listen!” the caller responded.
“Is Jack ok? Can I talk to him?” she asked, but he hung up.
She looked around for direction. An extended silence was broken when it was announced that the call was untraceable. “He wasn’t on long enough,” someone said.
My brother Buddy got moving. The police and FBI weren’t going to risk a nighttime commercial garbage pickup. Buddy left Kings Point, Long Island, in his 1974 silver Pontiac and traveled north on a similar path the kidnappers had used forty-eight hours ago. But instead of exiting into New York City, he continued on to Larchmont, a coastal town along the north side of the Long Island Sound. Nassau County police and the FBI followed in tow.
At 11:40 p.m., Buddy arrived at the Exxon station on Boston Post Road and parked next to a garbage barrel at the front of the service station. He had no idea if he was being watched. Buddy pulled out a dark green plastic bag. He got back into his car and drove to a place where the contents could safely be examined. Inspector Andrew Mulrain of the Nassau County Police Department joined him. They both took stock of the items in the bag: a black satchel, a black Dynotape cassette, a pen, a watch, a tie, an eyeglass case, dimes, quarters, and a small white envelope.
Mulrain exited the vehicle a few minutes later and told Buddy to go home. Mulrain and the others followed him some distance behind. They would all study the contents of the plastic bag into the early hours of Friday morning
The white envelope contained a letter from the kidnappers. Here is what it said:
Jack is alive and safe for now. His arrest is due to crimes against poor people. Pay his fine of $750,000 or he will be executed. If your corrupt police get involved and attempts are made to trap us, Jack will die. Then the entire family becomes targets. You are being watched. We are able to detect radio/electronic devices. We will test your sincerity and obedience. No harm will come to any of you if you cooperate fully. No further warning. Put $700,000 in $100s, $40,000 in $20s and $10,000 in $10s in this bag. Old bills not in series. Let no one mark or record. Bertram and Janet, prepare to drive the BMW downtown in four days. Janet, wear a white head scarf. Release will be one hour after fine is paid. Bertram alone answers phone when we call in four days. Death to racist capitalism.
The black cassette was a recording. It was my voice saying the following:
“I’m in a place where there is no escape from. The group is serious, and they mean what they say. Janet, don’t call the police. They don’t want any deceit. They’ll know if the money is marked, and they’ll know if there are any bugs. I’ve told them about the family, and they have the names and addresses of everybody. Do what they say. They mean what they say. They don’t want to be deceived. All I want to do is get out of here and get home, and they mean what they say, and Janet, talk to Buddy. They haven’t harmed me, and I can’t escape, so please do what they say. They know what they’re doing, and they know what they want, so do what they say. Don’t let the police influence you. Do what I say. Make sure the money isn’t marked and that there are no bugs in the packages or anything like that. They will know if there is. Janet, don’t be afraid to go with Buddy. The plan is a safe plan if you all cooperate. I am convinced they will either keep their word and let me go, or they will kill me. I’m banking on your cooperation. I’m anxious to be home with you and the children.”
* * *
At daybreak the FBI moved Janet and the boys to our friends’ Barry and Joan’s house. Janet never asked why. She grabbed Marc and Michael and left our home. She was terrified. She thought the kidnappers had been watching her and were going to kill me because she called the police. Looking back, the FBI was probably carving out space within the investigation away from the Nassau County police, especially given the discovery of the ransom letter and cassette tape.
Buddy was told to meet them at the house. Both he and Janet were given earpieces and two-way communication devices capable of facilitating conversation with the FBI at any time. There were no cell phones in those days. If Janet or Buddy encountered something suspicious or if something were to happen, they were to speak into the devices immediately. Their conversations would be recorded and help further the investigation. The officers came with black shoulder bags and microphones, but for some reason, they only tested Buddy’s mic.
When they returned to my house, a female FBI agent named Margot Dennedy pulled Janet aside and showed her how the device worked, including how to change the battery. Dennedy was no ordinary FBI agent. She would go on to become the first female supervisor in the history of the Bureau, and more importantly to us, a lifelong friend and adopted family member.
Things continued to unravel at home. Janet tried to keep up appearances. She was instructed to act outwardly as if nothing were out of the ordinary, an impossible task. It was important for her to carry on some semblance of a normal routine. The police and FBI had to silo facts while the kidnapping was still developing. Tipping off neighbors, school teachers, the press, or whomever would put me in danger. Only later when the police felt it was time to make an official announcement could she make a plea to the public for help—assuming the kidnappers weren’t caught first. Tipping them off that the police and FBI were on the case might force them to cut their losses. That wouldn’t bode well for me.
Our son, Marc, was in first grade. He couldn’t comprehend a kidnapping; no child should be put in that position. All he knew was his Daddy was gone, and he wanted him back. He also wanted to know who all of these strangers were in his house, and he wanted them gone.
“I want them to leave!” he told Janet. It was too much.
“Honey, these men are looking for a house in our neighborhood, and they don’t live nearby,” she said. “Daddy is away for work, and he got sick and can’t come home right now.”
It killed her to lie to Marc. It was yet another layer of the violation committed against our family. Victims don’t just suffer a large singular abuse, but many abuses touching several lives that last in perpetuity. Janet hated lying. It’s how she was raised and was a big part of how we tried to raise our children. We tell the truth in our family. But there she was, lying to him. She had to.
Marc still didn’t understand. He wanted these people to leave and for our family to go back to the way it was. Me too, Marc. Me too. It enrages me that my captors could reach that far into my life and harm the heart of a child—my child. But that’s exactly what they did.
Janet called my sister-in-law, Lois, Buddy’s wife. She came and took Marc to their home in Larchmont, New York. Michael, our two-year-old, stayed with Janet one more night before her parents came and took him away. I don’t know how Janet managed not to fall apart. To hear her tell it, her obsession became focusing on getting me back.
* * *
Back at the tenement, I was being “rewarded” for good behavior.
“You’ve been a good boy, Jack,” the Keeper said. “You’re being promoted.”
He addressed the chains constricting my body. First, he disconnected my neck from the closet wall, then my feet. It had been three days and three nights in the closet. My reward? A metal-frame bed with a thin, musty mattress a few feet away. It was a meager upgrade.
But as soon as I was moved to the bed, my chains returned. My legs, still bound and padlocked together, were now fastened to the bed frame. My hands remained cuffed. The chain-link noose from the closet was gone, for now. It would be reintroduced nightly, with my neck padlocked to the head of the bed frame.
The Keeper unwound the adhesive bandage from around my head. Finally, after several days, I could see again—or so I hoped. But I couldn’t see anything. It was dark. I squinted anyway. I assumed the Keeper donned his ski mask. I could feel him working the bandage with gloves on. I avoided his eyes, for his benefit and my safety, not knowing how he could see in there.
As the days wore on, I told him several times I didn’t want to see him.
“Look, I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to know who you are. I don’t want to see your face. I don’t want to know anything. I just want to go home,” I said.
I would turn away when he or they would come into the room. It was actually a ray of hope. They were so careful not to be seen and identified, and I was more careful not to look. I was lowering the cost, I thought, of them setting me free.
I wasn’t sure what to make of it, but I’d been given a bed and the ability to move a little bit during the day. The Keeper put dark glasses over my eyes with tape stuck over the lenses and around the sides. I was left alone for longer periods of time.
He’d come and go. I assumed it was the Keeper, though I knew there was at least one other man involved—the near-silent driver with the shotgun from my driveway. I had no grasp on their plans apart from what I was told to say on the ransom tape. I had no concept of their movements. Whether they were in the next room or long gone, I had no way of knowing.
I worked up enough courage to remove the taped-over glasses from my eyes. It seemed like a death wish, like I was playing with fire. The action came long after the thought to do so. I became more comfortable, although far from it in any normal sense. Sometimes I’d wear the glasses, sometimes I wouldn’t. Still, it was always black as night in the room. At times a rare sliver of light seeped in, whether from under the door or some other faint source. And when that happened, my eyes darted around the room soaking up details.
I saw a window boarded from the inside and a pipe next to it, probably a heating pipe. The ceiling was a lighter color than the darker walls. The room was small, about eight feet by eight feet, with a dark linoleum floor, one electrical outlet, a ceiling light that was never used, and the closet. That hideous, horrible space protruded maybe two feet from the adjacent wall and ran about five, maybe five and one-half feet long. It seemed like there should’ve been sliding doors, but there were none. The door to the room opened inward, and there were several locks outside of it. I was warned that the dark glasses better be on whenever the door opened. I hurried to put them on as soon as I heard the fiddling and clicking of the locks prior to their entry.
“You’ve been a good boy, Jack,” the Keeper complemented another time.
A second “reward” was now granted: light. Not sunlight, of course, but a Sterno can—an ominous glowing, bluish flame, as if the flame carried the sinister afterglow of the Keeper’s intentions.
We talked more as the days went on. He was bright. Sick, but bright. He was organized. Meticulous. Disciplined. Depraved. He thought through everything he said and did. He knew what he wanted. At one point, he told me he had a doctorate degree. He also said he had nine children. In the next breath, he said the plan was to kill me, but he talked his superiors out of it. He never mentioned who they were, and I wasn’t entirely convinced they existed.
“This is going to teach you and your people not to keep all the money for yourselves,” he said. “From now on, we’re going to take what we want, when we want it. You know why? We have no fear of jail. We’re not afraid like you.”
“How many tenement buildings do you own? You see, we have to live in these buildings.”
He said several times that we needed to pay him as soon as possible so he could help poor people and travel south to warmer weather.
“Your money is going out of the country. It’s going to feed hungry poor people in other lands. It’s going to help the Palestinians and poor black people,” he said.
“We’re not gonna let your people do to us what the Nazis did to you. We’re gonna take what we want,” he ranted.
* * *
On the evening of my promotion, I was ordered to make another tape recording. Just like the first one, I was told what to say and how to say it. Again, the imperative was to be convincing. If by the Keeper’s judgement I failed, it was over. It was all over. “You’ll never see your family again,” he said. His words grabbed and shook me to attention. I believed him.
I did as I was told the best I could. The theme was for Janet to deliver the money. I had to assure her that the kidnappers had a good plan. She had to trust them. She had to go. We rehearsed it again and again. It didn’t have to be so hard, but it was. He wanted the recording done his way. I clasped the microphone. He would stop the recording and tell me it wasn’t convincing. We’d start again. He gave me the tape recorder this time. “Turn it on. Turn it on. Turn. It. On. Not like that. Do it again,” he’d say. I felt his frustration. I practiced what to say, then pressed the switch on the mic, toggling back and forth, on and off. My hands trembled under the pressure. I wasn’t well.
After the tape, he wanted a picture. I was propped up on the bed, my back against a wall. I caught a glimpse of a long gray overcoat from the thin space beneath the rim of the taped-over lenses of my glasses. It was a different person, too tall and slim to be the Keeper. There had to be two people in the room. Two men. Was that three in total? Or more?
They put a blanket over my legs to hide the chains. It stank. It was filthy. It smelled sour, as if it’d been dampened by something foul and left untended to dry in some corner of this God-forsaken hovel. I still wore the same clothes from Tuesday night. I felt nauseous. They handed me a newspaper. The Keeper told me to hold it up for the picture. “Don’t cover your face,” he said. The picture would prove to my family that I was alive; the paper marked the date.